


Missing: One Owner

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Anal, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Barbed Penis, Catcroft, Catlock, F/M, Felching, Genital Modification, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Prostate Massage, Prostitution, Sex Toys, Slavery, Spoilers for Season 3, Stuffed Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cats evolved into felissapiens, which put them at odds with homosapiens. Shelters now care for those without homes while the felines attempt to get more rights and police try to keep them from being abused. John starts his new job in Scotland Yard and meets one stray with an attitude who starts bringing him 'presents' in an attempt to get John to adopt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’d thought they were _so clever_. Perhaps they were. They had been literally worshipped at one point. Then they began to grow in size, making them less popular as pets. Then some of them had started being born with humanoid shape and the cats had scurried to hide it. For a good ten years owners of cats wondered at this sudden urge for their feline companions to vanished the second their pregnancy was discovered. When they returned with kittens the litters were often small, sometimes containing two, but more often only containing one. Theories amongst humans became more and more concerned as it became clear that there were fewer cats. Breeding programs were failing as cats vanished from their cages in hospitals.

Then someone caught the cats breaking out of their cells on a security camera. Shortly there-after theories were proved correct by the first public birth of a humanoid shaped cat. The poor creature was kept captive while it grew and within a year it was a four foot tall humanoid with average intelligence. He could read, write, speak, and had ambitions like anyone else. Activists clamored for his release while cats everywhere vanished en-masse. It wasn’t hard to figure out after that. Soon colonies of humanoid cats were discovered, living in conditions that gave third world countries a run for their money. Most didn’t survive to adolescence, which for them was no longer than four months.

At first they were moved to facilities where they were studied while being given essential medical care and sustenance. It soon became apparent that even their four-legged counterparts were intelligent. A new term was coined- felissapiens- and the news went wild. Then the mayhem began. Humans were outraged when they realized they’d been used as free room and board by an intelligent species. There were even accusations that they were aliens. Cats became hunted and had to be imprisoned in order to avoid being murdered en-masse.

Eventually things began to settle and people began adopting cats once more since no one would hire the lazy creatures for work except fetish establishments. For a time they were used as house slaves, cheap labor, and pole dancers. They made excellent artists and turned out to be passionate lovers. For a time prostitution was ignored in favor of allowing them to make money the only way they could, but it wasn’t long before the law had to step in.

This time it was more organized as the shock had worn off. Shelters were established. Laws were passed. Cats were required to hold jobs if not in a shelter or adopted since they were still quite soothing to own and preferred to be pampered. Slavery was strictly outlawed, and jobs were created in social workers, which visited the homes of the adopted cats and workplaces of individual ones to make sure they were being treated well.

This was the world John stepped into when he returned from the war in Afghanistan and stepped into the mortuary of St. Bart’s to meet his first felissapien.


	2. Chapter 2

Most people hated Lestrade when they found out he was gay and dating a woman. They called him old fashioned, a poser, a liar, a fraud, and homophobic. He usually told them to stuff it up his well-worn arse. He did _not_ explain it to them. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation, it simply wasn’t their business. It was between himself and Molly… and Mycroft Holmes.

Lestrade loved Molly, and had done since the first time she had giddily told him how fascinating she found a diseased lung… while holding it. She had been so adorably nerdy, so absolutely sickeningly sweet, that he had fallen head over heals for her. It had ended a three-month relationship with a much more sexually attainable man, but he had no regrets. They had done what they could to make it work; promising each other an open relationship, but it had been difficult. Then one day Molly had come home with an orange cat. At first they’d fought over it. Then the creature had stretched out naked across their couch- long limbs and plump torso covered in a thin coating of downy soft fur- and Lestrade had lost his train of thought while watching the creature bend double to lick his own bollocks. He’d fucked him into the mattress and then the smirking creature had climbed on Molly and pleasured her senseless. The rest had been the beginning of a beautiful… whatever the hell they had.

XXX

The first time John Watson met Sherlock Holmes he thought he was more than a bit overwhelming. He was just a PC, starting out on his first case after training. He was working under DI Gregory Lestrade and Sgt Sally Donovan, and they were completely stumped on a case involving serial suicides. John had been the first to point out that they needed a fresh perspective. They’d looked at him as if _he_ should provide it, and when it wasn’t forthcoming they’d texted Molly Hooper.

Molly Hooper was Lestrade’s fiancée, a forensic scientist, and the owner of one Mycroft Holmes, felissapien. That connection could get them in touch with the far more active brother of Mycroft Holmes: Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was apparently some sort of genius fake detective. His brother, Lestrade claimed, was the superior mind, but had a cat’s typical laziness and refused to budge from Molly’s couch unless said piece of furniture was on fire. The fond look in Lestrade’s eyes when he mentioned the felissapien gave John his first clue that this was the talking variety of cat- the ones without humanoid forms being unable to speak most words.

Then he’d walked into the morgue at St. Bart’s and stared in shock as the man deduced everything about him after borrowing his phone for a split second to send a text to a man who was in the same room as him.

“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock, now you’re just showing off,” Lestrade had growled at the black and white tom.

“Of course I am, I’m a show off. It’s what I do,” Sherlock had stated, then turned sharply and went back to the microscope he’d been examining, “Another suicide, is it? But something is different about this one or you wouldn’t be contacting me after blowing me off when I tried to tell you they _weren’t_ suicides a week ago.”

“This one left a note,” Lestrade acknowledged, ignoring Donovan’s frustrated scoffs.

John couldn’t help but smile at the adorable felissapien as he practically vibrated with excitement. His black ears were pricked forward, little tufts at the top trembling with anticipation. His short whiskers twitched as he pursed his (oh, gods, so full!) lips in a feline smile. His tail was curled up in a question mark as he snatched up a ratty Belstaff coat and threw it over his faded, but stylish clothes; they had to be second hand, because they were so tight that the buttons were in danger of bursting right off when he moved and he seemed the sort to wear something far nicer if he could only afford it. Sadly, most felissapiens lived in squalid conditions unless adopted by lonely old ladies or dedicated cat people.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Sherlock asked.

They headed out the door, John trailing behind in order to stare at the attractive creature’s tail. As they approached the panda car the tail began to lash. When they opened the door it puffed up. The feline stalled for a moment, apparently uncomfortable with cars. Donovan snickered, but Lestrade glared her down and waited with the door held open. He stealed himself and then slid into the seat. John followed after, giving him a supportive smile.

“How did you know all that about me?” John asked, “About the therapy and the limp I used to have?”

He was hoping to distract the felissapien from his distress and it worked. The cat launched into an explanation that left John with his mouth hanging open.

“That was… brilliant.”

“Huh, that’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock replied, giving him a startled look.

“What do they usually say?” John asked.

“Piss off,” Donovan laughed, “Or they just punch him.”

John frowned, but Sherlock had snatched John’s phone out of his pocket and was googling weather conditions. When they got to the crime scene he snatched it up again, and this time he didn’t give it back. Instead he took them on a tour of London, all but scaling the sides of buildings as he studied their surroundings. Finally, he hopped down and led them to a dumpster.

“In there. The missing suitcase is in there,” The feline declared, pacing in front of the bin in agitation, “I can’t go in. I can’t return to the shelter filthy or they’ll not let me stay the night.”

“I’ll go,” John replied, “Low man on the totem pole.”

A few minutes of digging produced a hot-pink suitcase and they returned to the Yard to discuss their possibilities while Anderson searched the case. Sherlock stood over his shoulder and agitated the hell out of the man by pointing out everything he’d done wrong or missed. Finally he declared there was a missing phone and before they knew it they were tracking said phone down. John slapped the cuffs on his first criminal within the hour, grinning broadly after having tackled the man down.

“Got your fix, have you?” Sherlock asked him, bouncing on the balls of his feat as John read the man his rights.

“I have no idea what you mean,” John replied.

“You’re _bored_. You were discharged from the services and now you need your adrenalin fix, but this is the first time you’ve seen something beyond paperwork.”

John nodded, “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again,” Sherlock stated, then collected his meager funds from Lestrade and headed out the door.

John glanced out the window to see him catching a bus. He’d mentioned a shelter, which brought a shudder out of John. He’d heard so many horror stories about them, not the least of which was that prostitution rings were being run out of them. That day John went home and googled everything to do with felissapiens, including a curious search for the tom cat’s name as well. When he found his website he wandered around the confusing thing for a while and then decided to blog for a change. He logged on to his blog, which was practically empty despite his therapists insistence that he document his ‘life’, and began to write about his first arrest. The entire blog entry ended up being about Sherlock Holmes, including a link to his website.

A week went by before he ran across the felissapien again, and when he did the creature looked ragged.

“John,” Lestrade stated, gesturing for him to enter his office, “Better sit down. I want you in on this instead of Sally. She’s not Sherlock’s favorite person.”

“Something wrong?” John asked, then swore at the sight of Sherlock’s swollen face.

“I seem to have found myself on the wrong side of someone’s temper,” Sherlock stated with a frustrated sigh, “I need to get back into a shelter, but they won’t take me while I’m adopted so I need to get out of my house.”

“You were adopted?” John asked, leaning over to study the cat’s face automatically. He allowed it, “This is bad. You might have a fracture beneath it. Have you been x-rayed?”

“No medical. Felissapiens outside of shelters don’t get medical care unless their owners provide it.”

John’s mouth was pressed into a thin line in outrage. He glanced at Lestrade.

“I’m on my way over to give his owner an ASBO. Then we’ll have Sherlock sign the paperwork stating his homelife was abusive. He’ll be released into the care of the shelters after that. _If_ we can find him a place to sleep tonight he’ll be back where he belongs in no time.”

“He’s got my lovey. I _need_ that back,” Sherlock stated firmly.

“We’ll get your lovey, Sherlock,” John comforted, petting the cat’s hair without thinking.

Embarrassed, John quickly withdrew his hand only to find the cat leaning over and bumping his head into his shoulder despite a wince of pain. John resumed petting him gently while Lestrade made a call and filled out a form, which Sherlock signed without withdrawing his head from beneath John’s hand. They headed out after that, Sherlock plastering himself against John’s side in the car. He kept his arm to himself despite the urge to wrap it around the miserable creature; he just didn’t think it was appropriate.

The owner was angry when they arrived. He insisted over and again that _Sherlock_ was to blame for his violent behavior. Even Lestrade seemed to agree with him, but the man forced the ASBO on him anyway and had him sign off on Sherlock’s discharge from his care.

“I know he’s a prat,” Lestrade stated with a sigh, “But you can’t just slug someone for being a prat. Felissapien or not.”

They headed back to the car with a pile of Sherlock’s belongings in the back seat beside him. John sat up front this time, glancing back once in a while to see Sherlock sitting there looking dejected. His ears were limp and his eyes resigned. They pulled up to the shelter and Sherlock climbed out. He knocked at the door and spoke to them for a moment, but the lady who had answered just kept shaking her head.

“There’s no room,” Sherlock sighed, slipping back into the car.

They drove for hours, visiting every shelter in London before Sherlock let out a resigned sigh and asked them to take him to ‘the bridge’.

“I’m not letting you sleep under a bridge. Not again,” Lestrade snapped, “Just come home with us! Molly adores you. I’ll tolerate you. I sure as hell won’t punch you when you’re in a strop!”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock scoffed, “I’d rather sleep under a bridge.”

“He’s your brother! He cares about you…”

“He’s controlling and manipulative.”

“He’s worried. He worries _constantly_ about you,” Lestrade argued.

“No.”

Lestrade sighed and John struggled mentally for a moment, but he didn’t even have a couch for the poor thing to sleep on. In the end they did drop him off at the bridge, and Sherlock stalked off to stash his belonging against a wall and stand beside some other felissapiens who were gathered around a burning barrel.

“Is this really the way they live now? It’s miserable.”

“Yeah well… he’ll be okay. He’s resourceful,” Lestrade stated, but then looked decidedly uncomfortable, “Look, I know it’s none of my business but… he mentioned your blog in his report.”

“My blog? I didn’t mention any names of officers or Hope or anything,” John replied, feeling a jolt of worry.

“Yeah, I know. I saw it, but… Look, he got adopted because of your mention of him in your blog and…”

“Shit! This is _my_ fault?!”

“No! Hell, no. This is that brute’s fault. He doesn’t get a pass just because your blog made him want to adopt a smart cat. He thought he’d make _money_ off of Sherlock; as if he were some sort of sideshow. My point was that… well, you seem a bit taken with him.”

John thought about that a moment, and then frowned, “I’m not into that cross-species sort of thing. I mean, he’s brilliant and all but…”

“Sure, he is, but my thought was if you like him… and trust me that’s rare… maybe you’re the sort he should be adopted by.”

John felt a pang of longing at that. It would be wonderful to have someone to come home to, but… he didn’t have a home to come home to. A tiny bedsit wasn’t the place for an active cat like Sherlock.

“I’m not much of a cat person,” John replied, “And I’m not up for that sort of responsibility either. I’d hate for him to get his hopes up and then for us to hate each other. I’m sure he’ll find someone else.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Lestrade stated, but didn’t sound overly convinced.  


	3. Chapter 3

It was a few weeks before John saw Sherlock again. This time the case was a single murder, but the accused- based on the wife’s eyewitness testimony- was a trio of burglars who had evaded capture for months… but were robbing a bank twenty miles away at the time that the murder had occurred. As such, the police were certain she was lying about who had murdered her husband, but the maid was adamant that her lady had no reason to lie. So Sherlock was called in to prove or disprove the Case of the Second Crime Scene, as John was already calling it in his head.

_I shouldn’t blog about him again… but he didn’t complain last time. And it did get him adopted. Maybe next time it will be by someone decent._

When they picked Sherlock up it was from a shelter, so John was relieved to find he was at least sleeping under a roof once again.

“Doing alright?” Lestrade asked.

“Tell Mycroft it’s none of his business,” Sherlock snipped, sliding in next to John once again, “I see you’re flat hunting. I suggest you go with Baker Street.”

“How did you…?” John gaped.

“You smell of Mrs. Hudson’s perfume still. It’s on your jacket. You know I’ve done a study on different types of perfume and which signals they…”

John let himself drift, nodding when it seemed appropriate while only paying half-attention. When the cat paused for breath Lestrade chimed in.

“Mrs. Hudson’s a good woman. I remember her case.”

“Yes, it was most fortunate you called me in,” Sherlock stated, “If that oaf of a husband of hers hadn’t gotten the chair I’m almost certain she’d be dead today.”

“You got her husband convicted?” John asked in surprise.

“Yes, I assured it,” Sherlock nodded, “The brute was _beating_ her.”

“That sweet old lady!” John snapped angrily.

Sherlock was fiddling with John’s phone again, “Taking your pension and the starting salary of the yard into account you should be able to afford the price she listed.”

“Are you prying into my finances?!” John snapped, yanking his phone out of his hand, “That was password protected! You hacked my bank account!”

“A password that simple doesn’t require hacking. You should avoid the ponies if you want to keep a flat larger than a breadbox.”

“I’m starting to see why people get mad at you,” John snapped.

“I suppose I won’t get an entry in your blog, then. Pity.”

“I’m not taking the Baker Street flat, and it’s not because of my finances,” John huffed, folding his arms and blushing at the mention of his blog, “It’s got a terrible infestation. There are squirrels in the walls and they managed to chew through into the upstairs bedroom, too. She can’t afford to hire an exterminator until she gets a tenant and I don’t feel like moving in only to go stay in a hotel while they try to get rid of them.”

Sherlock was silent until they made it to the crime scene, then he searched the dining room where the criminals had entered through a window with a broken clasp. Lestrade went to question Lady Brackenstall about her husband’s death while John stayed to keep track of Sherlock. The consulting detective easily climbed up onto a chair and hefted himself onto a decorative ledge to examine the servant’s bell-pull.

“People still use those?” John asked, standing below him in case he fell.

“Rich snobby ones do,” Sherlock replied, “This rope has been cut, not torn. The bell was likely never rung, which fits the ladies story.”

Sherlock looked around himself suspiciously.

“None of this adds up,” Sherlock frowned, “It’s the wrong hour for burglars, no one heard Lady Brackenstall screaming when she was struck and then tied up, the burglars were clearly described in the papers so it makes it easy for them to be framed in this situation, why even kill Sir Eustace when three men could overpower her? Then why would Lady Brackenstall lie for a criminal?”

 

Sherlock hopped down, “How tall are the Randall gang? Any over six feet?”

“Records show them all below,” John replied.

“That cinches it. None of them were here,” Sherlock replied, darting over to the casement, “And only one person drank this wine.”

“Why?”

“This is beeswing wine, quite fine but it leaves dregs in the bottom of the glass. Only one of these three glasses has dregs in it. Clearly one glass was used and the other two simply had a bit of wine poured into it afterwards to make it look as if three had been used. Only one person committed this crime. One person who is six feet, three inches tall, quite muscular to have bent that poker over Sir Eustace’s head, and in love with Lady Brackenstall.”

“How do you get the last bit?” John asked.

“This is a crime of passion. The things stolen were a cover. I’ll find them and then we’ll discuss this with Lady Brackenstall.”

Sherlock hopped out the window the criminals had come in, drawing a shout from Anderson on the other side, but John was hot on his heals. They both carefully avoided stepping on the footprints being photographed and hurried forward. Sherlock led the way to a pond, grinned eagerly at the sight of a hole in it, and found a stick to poke about it in.

“Found the silverware. We’ll need someone to get it out, but for now let’s head back.”

“Amazing!” John gaped.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Sherlock frowned, “Even were it her lover who killed him… this wasn’t planned. Something about it is off. And there were no rumors. There are _always_ rumors when an affair is on”

“Maybe he came by at the wrong time and they were caught.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock frowned, “but something about this still doesn’t sit.”

They headed inside and when they entered the sitting room Sherlock froze in place, taking in the sight of Lady Brackenstall. John was taking in the sight of her as well, and quite appreciatively. Despite her fright leaving her pale and wan she was an absolutely gorgeous woman. Her hair was luxurious, impressive despite her frazzled coif, and her dressing gown clung to her voluptuous curves. John swallowed hard at the sight of a dainty ankle and dragged his eyes to her face only to be swallowed up by sapphire eyes.

“I’m sorry, Lestrade, but I found nothing,” Sherlock stated beside him, “This one seems to have baffled me as well.”

“You’re joking!” Lestrade gaped.

John gaped as well, then turned back to Lestrade to counter Sherlock when the cat tugged at his sleeve. John looked back again and Sherlock tapped his neck with one finger and flicked his slitted eyes towards the woman. John was momentarily distracted by the opalescent eyes, but shook himself out of it and looked back in time to see finger marks around Mrs. Brackenstall’s neck. Old finger marks. At least two days old, the bruises on the mend but clear. A glance at her wrists showed old bruises beneath the rope burns. Her dressing gown dropping down to her dainty feet now made a great deal of sense.

“I saw nothing either,” John replied with a frustrated huff, “It’s like a bloody ghost murdered him.”

“Well this is an old house,” The maid replied.

“I _know_ what I saw,”Lady Brackenstall stated, “I know I was concussed but…”

“Don’t worry yourself, my Lady,” Lestrade soothed, “We’ll find the culprits. It was likely a disguise, right Sherlock?”

“Undoubtedly. Their true identity might never be known.”

John wasn’t surprised to see some color returning to the Lady’s cheeks at that. So. She was worried about someone.

“Well, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, “Thanks for your help anyway. I can’t pay you…”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock replied, “I don’t expect payment for failed services. Come along, John, you can drive me back to the shelter while Lestrade finishes up here.”

Lestrade nodded agreement and they hurried out the door.

“Where are we _really_ going?” John asked.

“The nearest construction project,” Sherlock replied, borrowing John’s phone again, “Few people have that kind of strength. We’ll find our ‘murderer’ there.”

“I didn’t think you were going to turn him in,” John muttered as he pulled out.

“I’m not. I just want some questions answered.”

 A few hours later and Sherlock was looking decidedly uncomfortable while a very large man sobbed out his story of unrequited love and devoted protection to Lady Brackenstall… and some creepy window-watching that had led to murder when he intervened to stop the man from killing his wife in a fit of pique.

“Do you think they’ll end up together?” John asked as he drove Sherlock back to the shelter.

“Probably. She may not have noticed him before, but it’s a bit difficult to forget helping someone cover up the murder of your abusive spouse.”

“Well… good for them,” John replied, pulling up outside the shelter, “Shall I walk you in?”

“This isn’t a _date_ ,” Sherlock scoffed, and slipped out to hurry inside while John flushed in humiliation behind him.

XXX

The next morning John woke up to a pounding on his door. When he opened it up his landlord was standing there, fuming mad and pointing down at a pile of dead squirrels on his doorstep.

“No pets!”

“They’re dead,” John replied, still tired, “And I didn’t put them there.”

“No _cats_ ,” The man snapped, “No cats allowed in the building unless they’re paying tenants!”

“I haven’t got a cat,” John replied, “Ask someone else about the squirrels.”

“They’re on _your_ doorstep!”

“Yeah, but they’re on _that_ side of the door!” John shouted back, finally losing his temper, “Last I checked I was only responsible for this side!”

John slammed the door in his face and went to get ready for work.

When he arrived Sherlock was pacing Lestrade’s office while the man did his damndest to ignore him. John stepped in to see what the problem was, but Lestrade was on the phone ignoring them both while he made non-committal noises to the person on the other end. John nearly slipped on a pile of pencils and pens on the floor on his way in. While he was wondering what they were doing there Sherlock paused, placed both hands firmly on the desk, stared Lestrade straight in the eye, and knocked his stapler onto the floor. Lestrade rolled his eyes and mm-hmm’d into the phone again.

John snickered and Sherlock preened, noticing his entrance and striding over.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, what?” John wondered.

“The squirrels?”

“ _You_ put those there? What the hell for?!”

“I killed them. At 221 Baker Street. Now you can move into the flat you liked.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“Mrs. Hudson was grateful. She wanted me to patch up the holes, but that’s really not my thing. She said she’ll get someone up there tonight, though, and with the smell of cat lingering around the little buggers won’t be back for a bit.”

“That’s… great.”

Sherlock preened again, clearly thrilled, and then casually reached behind himself to knock a picture down. Lestrade swore at the sound of breaking glass, slammed the phone down, and stood up to berate Sherlock.

“I. Am. Bored!” Sherlock snapped before he could get a word in.

“I. Don’t. Care!” Lestrade raged back.

“I need a case!”

“You’ve just had one! You didn’t solve it!”

“I…” Sherlock stopped, huffing in frustration, “I need _another_ case.”

“John, toss him out,” Lestrade growled.

“Okay, big cat, out you go,” John sighed, taking him by his upper arm.

He was over Lestrade’s desk before he registered Sherlock moving.

“The fucking hell!” Lestrade shouted.

John shoved back, twisting out of the arm lock Sherlock had him in, using his height difference to his advantage. Without a thought as to consequences they were at it, throwing punches and blocking blows as John pushed for space and Sherlock gave it. They ended up in a draw when Donovan and Lestrade intervened.

“The hell is wrong with you two?!” Lestrade shouted, “Donovan, throw Sherlock in a holding cell! John. My office. Now!”

“We’re fine, sir,” John argued, grinning from ear to ear.

“Perfectly,” Sherlock panted, his smile just as wide, “Just blowing off steam. John and I were just going to go look at that flat he saw last week.”

“Right,” John agreed, half had already.

“Shit,” Lestrade, swore, “John a moment in my office.”

“We were just mucking about…”

“Now!”

Lestrade all but dragged John off while Sherlock scowled angrily.

“John,” Lestrade sighed, shutting the door, “I know I said you should take Sherlock in, but I didn’t think you were _into_ him. I thought you fancied birds.”

“I swing both ways. Why does it matter?”

“He’s barbed.”

John snorted. It was no secret that male cats had at one point had barbed penises, and that most people used the term ‘barbed’ to describe a stroppy tom, but only about 1% of the male population of felissapiens still had those tiny spikes on their penises. Those that were still cursed with that disadvantage were unwanted by both male and female lovers and entirely reliant on a ‘toy’ to reach orgasm. Then John recalled Sherlock’s reference to a ‘lovey’ and the large bulky bin bag that had appeared to contain a pillow…

“You mean _literally_ barbed?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied, “It’s a fucking tragedy, I know. He’s gorgeous. His brother is too, but he’s not… well. Look, I’m not saying don’t be pals with him; if you’ve got the tolerance then bless you both, but just don’t end up in a position you don’t want to be in. You can’t even wank them off. It’s not fun.”

“Shit,” John breathed, “Bloody hell. The first person I’ve got _real_ chemistry with since getting back to London…”

Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look, “Sorry mate.”

“Thanks for telling me. I doubt he would have.”

“Probably not,” Lestrade scoffed, “I’ve known him to lead blokes on for months before they finally figured it out. I can’t really blame him, those shelters are shit holes. Barely warm. Damp. Sometimes don’t have hot water. They sleep on small mats all curled up. Some don’t like that, you know?”

“Cor, really?” John asked.

“Yeah. A lot of them have them using litter boxes. It’s just easier and faster to get a shelter open with minimum plumbing. One toilet for staff, camp showers, and fucking litter boxes.”

XXX

John insisted on helping Sherlock collect his things from the shelter. He wanted to see the conditions himself, and Sherlock seemed to be aware of that and didn’t question it. They walked in and John was immediately hit by the scent of pine. The floor was literally covered in pine shavings as if the place were a giant hamster cage. There were shelves along three walls that were wide enough to be bunk beds, but they were close to each other, far too short, and clearly built by the shelter workers. Thin mats were on each and various cats were curled up on them. The four-legged variety looked far more comfortable, but the two-legged ones like Sherlock were cramped and miserable. One very obese fellow had to kip on a mat on the floor because he didn’t fit on the shelves.

Sherlock headed over to his little cube and plucked up his ‘lovey’. That confirmed it for John. The toy was meant to be a surrogate sexual companion for felissapiens with barbed penises. It was a large wool-covered pillow with two plastic holes, one on each side, of varying sizes that went all the way through. The point was to smear lubricant in them and engage in coitus with them. If he wanted, he could have a male partner penetrate him at the same time, but most got bored with the limited range of positions and the fact they couldn’t touch their partner. Most barbed toms stayed virgins for their entire lives.

Sherlock checked his bag, which appeared to contain a few articles of clothing, a dildo, some lubricant, a human skull, a riding crop, and a brush. Then he stuffed his lovey into a bin bag and stuffed both bags into John’s arms.

“Is that everything?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John shouldered Sherlock’s things and followed him back to the cab where they drove in silence to their new home.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: A few points. The felissapiens have very short fur, almost like velvet. If you’ve ever petted a hairless cat, that’s the feeling I’m going through (they aren’t really hairless).  I’ve purposely not described Sherlock too much because I want you to be able to visualize him as you enjoy him. However, if you want to know how he is in my head canon, Sherlock is a black and white tomcat. His face is white, his head black, and the blackness descends down his back, arms, and legs, but a white belly with white hands and feet. Your typical ‘socks’ cat.

 

Sherlock was thrilled with their knew surroundings. He walked around, rubbing his face against the corners of the walls and rolling over the furniture to mark it as his own. John gave him amused looks and discussed the cost of the second room upstairs with Mrs. Hudson. It was out of his budget at the moment, so he wandered over to ask Sherlock what he thought about kipping on the couch or looking for someplace else.

“I like it here,” Sherlock stated cheerfully, handing John a dead mouse.

“Oh, thanks. You’re good at that. Do you… do anything with them?”

“Fridge,” Sherlock replied, “I’ll run some experiments on it later. I’ve been meaning to start an acidic fur analysis.”

“Right then,” John replied, tossing it into the meat drawer, “Mrs. Hudson says the room upstairs is another hundred. I can’t pull that off.”

“Mm, I’m not making enough to supply that regularly. I’m reliant on Lestrade’s failure… and his willingness to admit it.”

John snorted, “Okay, so we should look elsewhere?”

“Mm, no. I like it here. Besides, she’s already comped us on account of my being her friend. We won’t find someplace better or even equal to this for less.”

“Okay, so two beds, then? She said she won’t mind switching out the big bed with the ones upstairs and in her room if we’ll move them.”

“Dull, call Lestrade.”

“Riiiight. Okay then.”

“And don’t give me hers!” Sherlock added as John headed away, “Her perfume will make me sick for weeks!”

When Lestrade showed up it was with an orange tiger cat in tow, his arm slipped around the alarmingly tall creature’s pudgy waist. The creature was holding a white gift bag that he held out to John with a rather smug looking lip-purse. Another gift box was under his arm and John assumed that to be for Sherlock.

“A housewarming gift for you, John.”

“Oh, cheers,” John replied accepting it with a smile, “You must be Sherlock’s brother Mycroft.”

“Indeed.”

“Mycroft’s the third in my relationship with Molly,” Lestrade stated with a grin, “I figure that you wouldn’t be bothered.”

“Nope, make yourselves at home. Bottled water is in the fridge… just don’t look in the mouse drawer.”

“Mouse drawer?” Lestrade asked in confusion.

“ _Meat_ drawer. I meant meat drawer.”

“Caught another, John!” Sherlock scurried in, holding the still wriggling mouse by his tail.

“Oh, good job, that. You’ll need a cage for him,” John snatched up a plastic tub and poked a few holes in it. Sherlock dropped it in, grinning happily as he placed it on the kitchen table.

John absent mindedly stroked Sherlock’s head when he crouched down to stare at his ‘present’ to John. The cat bumped his head up, but then scurried off to continue marking the flat.

“Ah, I don’t want to sound ignorant or anything but… he’s not going to _piss_ anywhere is he?” John worried.

“Er, Myc, you want to take this one?”

“I’m still reeling over the fact that he let you _touch_ him,” Mycroft replied.

“Oh? That’s unusual?” John replied, “Should I not have?”

“He _let_ you,” Mycroft replied, his eyebrow lifting while his whiskers twitched, “I can’t see why not. You’re aware of his… disadvantage?”

“Ah, yeah. I am. Thanks for… it’s just I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“Anything that concerns my brother is my business,” Mycroft all but hissed.

“Myc,” Lestrade scolded lightly, “What have I told you about…”

“Oh, don’t be tiresome, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, brushing his arm aside and striding across the room to flop down in the chair John had already decided washis, “As to your question, Sherlock would only _spray_ if he felt someone were threatening his territory. For example: if someone moved in on an intended mate or took his food.”

“Fair enough. Don’t touch his lovey or nick off his plate,” John agreed, “So basically we’re moving three beds around. Sherlock… won’t be helping.”

“Get used to that,” Lestrade laughed, “Mycroft doesn’t lift a whisker unless it’s to eat or fuck.”

“Sounds like the life to me!” John laughed.

“Lazy!” Sherlock shouted from their bedroom.

John snickered. Sherlock glided back out into the room to flop down in his own chair while John and Lestrade headed to the bedroom to start dismantling and moving the beds. On their way back out Sherlock was opening his gift from Mycroft to reveal a lovely violin.

“I suppose John’s gift is a sound-canceling headset?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied with a smirk.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” John panted as they headed downstairs with the larger mattress in tow, “I’m sure you’ll improve.”

Sherlock scoffed and Mycroft chuckled.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was the purring that woke John up. He rolled over and peered through the semi-darkness to see Sherlock on hands and knees, the bedclothes around his ankles. He was kneading his lovey with his hands and purring loudly. As John watched he paused to shimmy out of his trousers and pants before straddling the pillow. His tail lashed in agitation as Sherlock leaned forward and bit down near where the neck would be had his toy been a partner. John held his breath and was even able to hear the _shlick_ as he slid into the lubricated sheath.

Sherlock groaned softly, holding still a moment; _he must be in the smaller hole and is adjusting to the tightness_. Then he began to thrust fast and hard, growling softly and grunting as he buried himself over and again into his toy. John was hard and aching, so he quickly took himself in hand and stroked in rhythm with the frantically thrusting felissapien. Sherlock came long before John was even close, and he hesitated a moment before continuing to stroke himself. If Sherlock commented he’d just tell him to fuck off. In fact, Sherlock seemed unaware of his activities, though John thought that might just mean that he was unbothered by him, as his strokes were audible in their room.

Sherlock staggered upright once he’d caught his breath, grasped his lovey by one corner, and dragged it behind him as he headed to the toilet. John heard water running and realized he was cleaning up his toy.

 _Must be important to him_ , John thought absently before replaying the scene in his mind to give him more wank fodder. He could practically _feel_ Sherlock biting the back of his neck.

 _Or me biting his_ , s _liding into that tight body, stroking those velveteen hips…_

John came into a bit of tissue with a groan just as Sherlock flushed the toilet and padded back in.

“Goodnight John.”

“Night Sherlock.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning: Some Het sex for the first part of this story. I don’t think there will be more. Skim to the XXX if u don’t want to read.**

Greg stepped into his apartment and smiled at the sight of Molly on the couch with Mycroft stretched over her lap. He was naked, as he often was in their home, so she could stroke down his curved spine while he kneaded the pillow beside her. She was smiling and laughing as he purred and occasionally commented on the television. His commentary about the shows she watched was often scathing, but she thought he was hilarious.

Greg debated for a moment which end he wanted to sit at and chose Mycroft’s back end. He was glad he had. The little cockslut had a plug in his arse that was buzzing softly.

“Well, well, well, look who’s happy to see me,” Greg teased.

“Please,” Mycroft scoffed, “As if I waste my time…”

“How was your day, Molls?” Greg interrupted, which caused Mycroft’s tail to twitch in agitation.

“Good, aside from Sherlock coming into the morgue and demanding I let him beat another corpse.”

“Again? He needs a healthy outlet.”

“He needs someone who doesn’t care about… that.”

“True.”

“Can we not discuss my brother’s genitals while I have a vibrating plug in my nether parts?”

“Nether parts?” Greg snickered, “I’ve never heard you call it that.”

“You’ve never heard me call it anything. I don’t refer to my private parts in casual conversation.”

“No, you just show them off,” Greg grinned; grabbing the plug and sliding it out before pressing it slowly back in. Mycroft moaned and arched his back wantonly, “How long has he had this in?”

“He put it in about five minutes before you walked in. He always seems to know when you’re coming home, even on the days you’re detained.”

“He’s mysterious like that,” Greg nodded, then leaned down to press a kiss to that fuzzy ass, “So what does my pretty kitty want today? Hm?”

Mycroft rolled onto his back, leaving him arched beautifully over Molly’s lap, and presented his fully hard and emerged cock for attention. Greg smiled and leaned down to lap at his leaking prick while Molly smiled and scratched behind his hears. Mycroft’s purring resumed and he moaned softly as Greg took him into his mouth and began to bob eagerly. He glanced up at Molly who shook her head no with lust in her eyes, and popped off of him.

“Gregory!” Mycroft snapped angrily.

“Molly wants some love tonight. You need to save that tasty load for her. I’ll suck you dry next time.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft growled as he sat up and smiled at Molly with a predatory look on his face, “So you need me to… pleasure you.”

Mycroft nudged her legs apart and kneeled between them. Molly’s eyes went wide as Mycroft hauled her thighs upwards, parting her dressing gown to reveal her damp quim. He used the tip of his cock to tease her clit while Greg leaned forward to kiss her lovingly.

“You’re so lovely, Molly,” Greg purred.

“My loves,” Molly sighed, shivering in pleasure.

Greg added a few fingers to the mix, stroking her the way he knew she loved to be touched. Until Mycroft had joined them this was the only way he could pleasure Molly since his body didn’t respond to her at all. He did love her more than anything, though; more than any _one_ except Mycroft. He loved them both with a passion that overwhelmed him. Just watching Mycroft’s face fall lax with pleasure as he buried himself in Molly was enough to have his cock twitching in his trousers.

Greg shucked his clothes and stroked himself lazily while Mycroft fucked Molly into the back of the couch. She was a mess of pleasure, the angle stroking her clit as well as filling her to the brim with Mycroft’s thick member. Mycroft loved to both take and be taken, the passion he showed them both rivaling his sharp tongue. Greg knelt up and leaned forward to capture his expressive mouth in a heated kiss, their wet tongues dancing together as Molly’s cries of pleasure reached a crescendo beneath them. Mycroft pulled away from the kiss to throw his head back and cry out in pleasure, his hips pressed firmly against Molly’s as he came hard inside of her.

The best part, for Molly, was up next, because Mycroft loved to eat his own come. The cat slid down the couch and grasped her hips, pulling her forward until her hips hung off and her feet were planted wide. With one hand he teased her nipples while he buried his face between her thighs and licked and slurped greedily. He would flick his tongue over her clit until she climaxed just to devour their juices as they spilled out when her muscles clenched. By the time he came up for air Molly was a whimpering, limp mess and Mycroft’s chin was drenched in both their fluids. He was also rock hard again.

Greg circled around, undone and desperate for release, and pulled the plug out to quickly replace it with his cock. Mycroft cried out at the sudden change in depth and leaned back against Greg’s body as he took up a quick and punishing pace. His hand flew over Mycroft’s damp cock, Molly being a dear by dribbling some lubricant over him as needed, and thrusting up into the compliant body. His legs were slightly parted while Mycroft’s plump thighs were almost completely closed. The tightness was overwhelming and the angle was perfect. Mycroft was moaning and pressing back lightly. When Greg bit down on his shoulder he came with a strangled cry, his cock spurting lightly onto Molly’s thigh. Greg groaned out his own climax, thrusting through it as Mycroft clenched him, his gluttonous hole trying to suck him in with a vengeance.

They climbed onto the couch, spent and smiling lazily. Molly went to the loo and came back with a blanket and Greg’s robe. Mycroft lifted his leg up over his head to lap at his privates, cleaning himself while Greg and Molly cuddled and watched the telly beneath a blanket. Finally satisfied that his fur and skin were perfect, Mycroft slid under the blanket as well, rearranging their limbs so he could stretch out across both their laps. Greg and Molly tucked him in, leaving only his head exposed while they lovingly stroked his orange body beneath the blanket.

“We have the perfect life,” Greg sighed.

“We do, don’t we?” Molly agreed with a warm smile.

Mycroft just scoffed, but they knew him well enough not to take him seriously.

**XXX End Het**

 

John woke to the feel of someone rubbing up against his body. With a contented sigh he reached out to hold his lover only to find him or her squirming away. John opened his eyes and blinked groggily around the room in time to see Sherlock squirming back into his bed.

“Sh’lock?” John asked.

“Hm?”

“Were you just in my bed or was I dreaming?”

“I… I needed to mark you with my scent. Most humans don’t allow that. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh. M’kay. Next time just ask.”

There was a pause, and then, “Okay.”

John muttered a nonsensical reply and rolled over to go back to sleep. He didn’t see Sherlock’s glowing eyes watching him in the dark for another hour, frustrated curiosity marring his brow.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock had been tagging along with John to work each day, using his tail to hold onto the pole on the tube while whispering deductions about the passengers to him just to make him laugh. John was admittedly smitten, despite the fits of apparent ennui the man was capable of. Usually once they reached NSY Sherlock would demand a case, turn down anything he was presented with because it wasn’t exciting enough, and then leave in a strop, likely going to St Bart’s or perhaps seeking out a private client. Most days he would meet John back at home, though there was a night he was out until the next morning. When he returned that day he was particularly miserable and curled up on the couch with his lovey in his arms and stared off into space.

“You okay?”

“Mm.”

“Something wrong?”

“Mm.”

“Can I do anything? Ummm. Tea?”

“I see you wrote some domestic nonsense in your blog about us.”

“Well, domestic seems a bit harsh,” John replied, a bit offended.

“Oh really?” Sherlock sat up, shoving his lovey aside and glaring at John angrily as he recited what he’d read, “‘Sherlock Holmes is clearly a brilliant individual. Indeed he possesses knowledge of chemistry and psychology far advanced to those of my university professors despite having had no formal training himself. Yet what is most astonishing is his lack of any practical knowledge. For example: yesterday I witnessed him attempting to microwave eyeballs for the sake of an experiment, yet he was unable to figure out how to turn on the device!”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No _practical knowledge_?” Sherlock snarled, “You make it sound as if a public school education is the only way to attain intellectual development!”

“I don’t…”

“What you _really_ meant is that it’s astounding that someone so utterly _ignorant_ and _uneducated_ could be smarter than you are! Shocking, isn’t it?! Learning that humans aren’t the only ones capable of higher thought!”

John stood up, cold and angry with his fists clenched at his side, “I’m sorry you’re insulted, but I didn’t mean it like that. It was a _compliment_ , Sherlock, and I don’t expect you to know _everything_. No one does. I was just surprised that stuff like electric tea kettles and microwaves confound you when you can work a centrifuge with no problem!”

“If I ever knew how to use them I deleted it,” Sherlock replied with a wave of his hand.

“What?”

“My mind, John, is a hard drive. I save only essential information in it and delete the rest; otherwise it becomes cluttered and disorganized. _Like yours_. So why don’t you try _schooling_ yourself in something productive that will actually help with The Work rather than inflicting your opinion on the world!”

Sherlock flopped back down on the couch in a full out tantrum, turning his back to John and hugging his lovey to himself.

“Fine. Yeah. Okay.” John stood up, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out!”

John slammed the door behind him for good measure and headed for his favorite watering hole. The pub down the street from St. Barts was guaranteed to have an off duty nurse or two in it, and sure enough he walked in and laid eyes on Sarah. The resident training to become a doctor had been flirting with him for weeks. He felt bad about taking advantage of her so he had kept it professional, but a few drinks couldn’t hurt…

XXX

John woke up the next morning with a headache and a sour mouth. He picked up his phone to see a dozen missed messages. They were all from a number he didn’t recognized, but they were signed ‘M’. Each one was some variant on ‘go back home to Sherlock’, and they got increasingly more threatening until John found his testicles trying to climb back up into his body at some of the descriptions. There was only one message from Sherlock, and it was after all the messages from M.

**Ignore Mycroft. He’s being a prat.**

_Ah. Well. That explains it._

He staggered to the loo before wandering into the little kitchen at Sarah’s flat. She’d drunk even more than he had so he doubted she’d be up, but he’d make enough coffee for two anyway. Once he’d drunk the coffee he managed some bread and then got some water into him. Once the water sunk in he was feeling human enough to brave talking to Sarah.

XXX

Sherlock was pacing the flat when John walked back in the next morning… well… afternoon.

“Where have you _been_?! I got a call for a case!” Sherlock stepped up and then froze while John lifted an eyebrow at him.

“You were being a berk so I…”

“Got off with someone?” Sherlock sneered, “Off. Out of your clothes. Now.”

“What?” John asked, finding himself backed up against the wall as Sherlock began tugging his clothes off with a look of fury on his face.

“You _reek_ of her! It’s going to take me _hours_ to get this stink off of you! Do you know what it’s like to have you smelling of someone else in my own house?”

“You cats really do think you own the world, don’t you?” John snapped, shoving him away, “I’ll take a shower.”

“Not good enough! That will take too long; I’ll still have to put my scent _back on you_ after. I have to _lick_ it off you.”

That sentence went straight to John’s cock. His mouth dried out and he stood there licking his lips and slowly hardening as Sherlock stripped his clothes off of him. He started at John’s face, his rough tongue licking along his stubble line where he’d brushed up against her face when they’d been snogging. He lapped at John’s hair as well, licking over his whole head. Just when John had decided this wasn’t as sexy as he’d first imagined it Sherlock tackled his mouth. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a _claim_. He was incessantly licking at any and every part of John’s mouth that she had explored. John didn’t even know how he could possibly be aware of it because he’d rinsed his mouth out with mouthwash after they’d had breakfast and hadn’t kissed her goodbye since she’d been in the shower at the time.

Once Sherlock finished with his head he worked his way down, lapping at neck, and shoulders, and then down to his chest where she’d reached up his shirt and fondled his nipples. Sherlock’s tongue followed that track and John moaned brokenly as his nipples hardened beneath that rough, wet muscle. John’s brain was flip-flopping back and forth from his heated make-out session the night before and this clinical removal of the evidence. He couldn’t decide which was more erotic and his cock bobbed eagerly when Sherlock’s hip accidentally brushed it. The felissian dropped to his knees and John had to take several deep breaths. Luckily the tickling that resulted from his licking over his stomach distracted him from blowing his load at the sight of Sherlock Holmes at mouth-level with his cock.

“Turn around,” Sherlock growled out, his voice so deep it was mostly growl.

John turned around, planting his feet and spreading his legs as he braced himself against the door. He hated the fact he wanted this. It would _hurt_. It might even bleed. He’d take ages to recover. He knew of others who had gone though with it with barbed cats, and as long as they weren’t overly endowed it hadn’t harmed them, but it was painful and- danger glutton that he was- John didn’t enjoy pain! Still. The idea of giving Sherlock pleasure, of the shockingly tall and sexy cat buggering him to tears, was something that made his cock throb with renewed interest.

Then he started licking his back from lower to upper. John waited, the anticipation driving him spare. Sure enough the man descended once more and lapped at his buttocks… for a moment. John pushed his arse back eagerly, but the cat leaned back.

“Hmmm, she didn’t touch you here. Idiot. She missed the best part of you.”

“That sides not the best part,” John replied smugly.

“Turn around, then,” Sherlock snarled angrily, “Let’s get this over with.”

John turned, realizing with a hard swallow that Sherlock was _not_ enjoying this. His cock didn’t get the message; it was still pulsing with desire and fit to burst at the first touch. Sherlock hesitated, looking suddenly intimidated by what very well might be his first erect penis. That was the wrong thought and John was suddenly afraid he’d completely humiliate himself by coming all over Sherlock’s face _before_ he’d even been touched. It had been that long for him, and his wank a week ago had been unsatisfactory in the extreme. Sadly, the vision of Sherlock’s face covered in his spunk brought him closer to the edge, so John shut his eyes and slammed his head hard against their door twice to focus himself.

Sherlock’s touch didn’t come.

“She didn’t touch you _here_ either.”

“Mph, no,” John panted, “We just kissed.”

“You slept on her… lie low? No! Stupid! Her couch!” Sherlock was up on his feet in an instant, storming off across the room in a tiff, “You _idiot!_ ”

“Oh, now you’re mad I _didn’t_ get off with her?! What are we, anyway? Boyfriends? Flatmates?”

Sherlock scoffed, “I’m married to The Work.”

“Then I’m going to have dates and- hopefully- I’ll get off with one of them eventually. If you can’t handle that we’re going to have to figure out some other...”

“I need my lovey,” Sherlock snapped, and headed for the bedroom.

“Yeah, you and me both,” John sighed, staring down at his still fully erect cock which was refusing to admit that the blow-job he’d been expecting wasn’t coming.

John wrapped his hand around himself and started stroking slowly, intending on bringing himself off to the sounds of Sherlock ravaging his lovey in the next room while pretending he was a part of it. Those sounds never came. Instead, Sherlock himself flounced out, completely starkers and toting his lovey, and settled on his knees on the couch facing John and the door.

“You’ll take the larger hole. I prefer the tighter one.”

“What?”

“You said you needed the lovey. You are seeking sexual gratification. Come over here and take it.”

John swallowed as his brain tried to make that sound like something else and then hurried over. Sherlock was smearing warming gel inside the soft silicone tubes that they’d be fucking. His cock was slowly sliding out of it’s sheath, the pink tip wouldn’t show it’s barbs until he was fully erect and the foreskin had pulled back completely, the smegma keeping it from scuffing his own skin. Sherlock pulled the lovey up into his lap, hiding his growing erection away, and John mirrored him. They were both staring at each other, Sherlock looking slightly angry while John was flustered and aroused.

They both slid inside their respective holes together, Sherlock grunting, as the smaller one required a bit more force. Sherlock paused, taking a slow breath. John mirrored him despite the fact he wanted to thrust until he came fast and hard. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, but he forced them open again. They began to move in sync, their hips pressing slowly forward to bury themselves in the fake orifices and John lost their silent battle by groaning out loud as his bollocks drew up threateningly.

Sherlock gave in and began to pant. Their faces were a mere foot away as they began to fuck the toy in earnest. John could feel Sherlock’s breath dancing on his face, sweet smelling and warm. John licked his lips, hoping for a proper kiss from the feline, but all he got was a sight of those gorgeous eyes flickering down to stare at John’s peek-a-boo tongue and widening in blatant desire. His pupils were so blown they looked like human eyes- if human eyes came in unearthly beautiful colors.

The look of pleasure on Sherlock’s face was what did John in and he gasped as a coil of pleasure tightened in his belly. Then he felt something touch his cockhead and looked down. Sherlock had placed the palm of his hand over the opening on the other side of the hole in his toy. John’s cockhead was hitting it with each thrust.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, coming hard against the soft pads on the palm of his hand.

Sherlock groaned, loud and deep, and his other hand darted out to cover his own cockhead as he came with a few subtle hip twitches. The pleasure on his face was divine, like light flowing through a stained glass window. John stared at him in awe, determined to memorize this so he could bring it up in his mind over and again. He reached out with a shaking hand to touch Sherlock’s face, but the cat drew away suddenly with a hiss.

“Did you hurt…” John started, thinking he’d tugged on his cock the wrong way.

“Don’t touch me!” Sherlock snarled, then growled and hissed again, his tail lashing as he stood up and stalked away.

“What the fuck…?” John asked, “We just had sex, Sherlock…”

“That wasn’t sex, John,” Sherlock laughed, snatching his lovey up from John’s lap and causing his softening prick to drop to his thigh with a wet slap, “That was a step above _wanking_. I understood people did that sort of thing in Uni.”

“Is that… I thought…”

“You needed to get off and I was angry. That relaxes me,” Sherlock replied, and then lowered his voice to mutter, “Usually.”

“Well, what are you angry about? Because I had a drunken fumble and slept on someone’s couch?”

“Don’t be daft!” Sherlock snapped, “I’m angry because you think I’m some uneducated… _animal!”_

Sherlock turned to face him and John was sorry to see his cock was back inside his body again. He’d wanted to get a look at it. The pictures he’d seen on the net of barbed penises were all blurry and usually had fingers half-covering them.

“I don’t think you’re an uneducated animal, Sherlock. You’re being sensitive about it,” John replied, “Frankly, it’s weird. I thought you didn’t care what people thought about you?”

“I don’t!”

“Then why do you care what _I_ think of you?” John asked. His stomach clenched as he stupidly hoped for a romantic confession. _Very stupidly_.

“Because you’re my owner now!” Sherlock snapped, “If I don’t keep you impressed and happy with me I’ll end up in a shelter again! _I will not go back to those hell holes!_ ”

“Shit… that’s not going to happen,” John insisted, standing up and holding out his hands consolingly.

“Yes it is! You think this hasn’t happened to me before? I’m _useless_ as a pet! I don’t like being petted, I _won’t_ bend over for you, I won’t be a slave, and I can’t…”

“You let me pet you.”

“What?”

“Pet you. You let me pet you. Did you not like it? I won’t do it again if you didn’t.”

Sherlock paused, paced a moment, and then stared at the skull on the mantle, planting both hands on either side of it. His tail was still twitching, but more subtly now, “I didn’t dislike it.”

John stood up and walked across the room to his side to run his hand from the back of Sherlock’s neck down his spine and stroke his short-furred black tail from base to tip the way he longed to stroke his cock. Sherlock arched into it so he repeated the action from the top of his head down to the tip of his tail and then returned to scratch behind his ears. Sherlock made a pleased sound and tilted his head before beginning a soft purr. He kept it up until the tension started leaving his body and Sherlock leaned forward to rub his cheeks against the mantle and John’s other hand that rested there beside Sherlock’s.

“Whose the skull?” John asked gently, noticing it seemed to comfort him to look at it.

“An old friend… well, I say friend.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock snorted, but didn’t elaborate as to why.

“You’re so tense,” John continued, “No one should be that tense after an orgasm. Come sit on the couch and let me pet you properly, hmm? I’m annoyingly affectionate after coming, you might as well benefit from it.”

Sherlock laughed and shook his head, “I need to clean my lovey.”

“I’ll take care of it. Just relax. How about a cuppa?”

“Yes, two sugars.”

John gave his shoulder a light squeeze and walked back to pick up the lovey from where it had been dropped into Sherlock’s chair. It had leaked on the upholstery, but John thought it was more likely that he cared about the lovey more. He walked it into the bathroom, holding it flat so their come wouldn’t leak onto the sheep fur, and gently wiped it dry before using some toy cleaner he found to sanitize it. Then he tossed it onto the bed and headed out to the kitchen to make them some tea.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch in just a sheet looking uncomfortable.

“You can dress if you like,” John pointed out.

“No, I’d rather not.”

“Okay then,” John replied, “What case is on?”

“Hm?”

“You said we had a case?”

“Oh. Yes. Lestrade will be wondering where we are,” Sherlock stated, his expression lost, “You’re really fine with this? With me being a terrible pet?”

“You’re not my pet, you’re my flatmate. If you want to be a prick about it, you can. You’re not going to be kicked out. I’ll take care of you for as long as you need me to.”

“ _Why_? You don’t make sense. I saw that look on your face when we arrested Hope. He made that comment about cats and you looked fit to murder him. Why do you care?” Sherlock asked, his tone one of curiosity rather than sentiment.

“I don’t know. You need it, I guess. And like you pointed out, I’m addicted to danger, which you exude like pheromones.”

Sherlock snorted and accepted his tea with a nod. He draped himself facedown across John’s lap and somehow managed to sip it at that odd angle.

“You okay now?” John asked as he petted him gently, “I really am sorry for insulting you. I didn’t mean to.”

“It wasn’t you,” Sherlock sighed, “I bumped into my brother the other night and he gave me a hard time. He’s on another diet. It makes him nasty. He flaunted a female felissapien in heat in front of me. They’ll take a barbed penis when they’re desperate like that. I turned her down, but I’m never right until I climax a few times after something like that.”

“Oh… do you need to go again?”

“Humiliating,” Sherlock growled, shifting and rubbing himself against John’s bare leg, “At least you were aroused as well before. This is degrading.”

“Hey?” John gave his tail a light tug, “You can be like that with me.”

Sherlock moaned, his tea toppling out of his fingers and onto the floor.

“P-pet me,” He groaned, his hips rising as he presented his arse to the room.

John stroked him firmly with his left hand, stopping to scratch when it seemed appropriate and Sherlock whimpered in need. He reached down to tease around his arsehole with his right hand, thinking a bit of prostate stimulation would do the trick. Sherlock must have approved because he moaned and shifted his legs apart.

 “That’s it,” John growled, letting a bit of lust leak into his voice, “Let it go.”

To his absolute shock Sherlock suddenly rolled over, grabbed the hand that had been petting him, and bit it _hard_. John shouted in pain, yanking his hand back, and Sherlock bolted for their bedroom, ears plastered flat to his head, the door slamming hard behind him. John sat there on the couch staring at his bleeding hand in confusion before standing up and going to the kitchen to wash it with the first aid kit. After a few minutes he heard Sherlock moaning from the bedroom so he sighed and left him be. It was an hour before he emerged again, a miserable look on his face with his ears parellel with his shoulders. His tail was peeping out from between his trouser-clad thighs, tucked beneath his legs in a sign of submissiveness that was unusual for the felissapien.

“You won’t tell Lestrade?” he asked, trying hard to hide his shame at the situation but not managing to prick his ears up, “I don’t usually get overwhelmed by so many… _emotions_.”

“No,” John replied with a light headshake, “Sherlock, I’m your _friend_.”

“I don’t have _friends_ ,” Sherlock scoffed.

John frowned, more than a bit hurt.

Sherlock glanced up at him and looked away, his ears twitching down a bit more, “Well, just the one.”

John decided that was as close to an apology as he was going to get and left it be.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: For purposes of this story the Blind Baker case has been changed from a Chinese smuggling group to Thai. This allows me to use the cat breed as Siamese (see pic at the end). Also, ‘Anon’ is a Thai name meaning ‘No Debt’. Just a bit of an odd thing I found while doing research for this.

 

“Where the hell were you two?” Lestrade snapped, “We’re going crazy here!”

“Oh please, this is a five at best,” Sherlock snorted.

“Then why are you here and not at home?” Lestrade taunted back, “And why did Mycroft come home from visiting you and all but rape me two nights ago?”

“That was his own fault,” Sherlock snapped.

“What?” Lestrade asked in confusion.

“Never mind,” Sherlock snarled, “Where’s the body?”

“Down there,” Lestrade replied, pointing to the basement stairs in the old brownstone.

John followed Sherlock down, watching his tail twitch aggressively. He still wasn’t himself, that much was sure. Down into the basement where a desk was arranged to display a man’s skeleton. The clothes were old fashioned, everything coated in dust, and a strange smell lingered in the room.

“Is that… smoke?” John asked.

“Mm, old smoke,” Sherlock nodded, “This is not our original crime scene. This is a set-up.”

“That dust, though. Aren’t you always saying dust doesn’t lie?”

“Which just makes this all the more beautiful,” Sherlock smirked, “I underestimated this case. This is at _least_ an eight.”

“So why display a corpse in a prominent politicians house as if it’s been here for decades? Aside from the obvious, of course.”

“The obvious being?” Sherlock asked.

“To discredit him,” John replied with a shrug.

“Mmm, no. It being someone famous was just to get my attention. It virtually guarantees that I’ll be called in so the case gets solved quickly.”

“Wait, so this is a set-up for _you?_ ” John asked, “Why?”

“Someone’s been reading your blog again,” Sherlock replied, straightening up from his perusal of the scene, “Take a look at this, doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor anymore,” John replied, “I never renewed my…”

“Take. A. Look. How old is this corpse.”

“It’s… six months? Six months, but that doesn’t make… Hold on a tick. This has been prepared. This is a _bleached_ and then _stained_ skeleton. It was restored to make it look old! They literally controlled where each stain went to make it look as if it decomposed naturally.”

“Which means?” Sherlock prompted.

“That it didn’t. Someone removed the flesh. Either by boiling or via corpse beetles.”

“Which means?” Sherlock insisted again.

“Why are you asking me? You already know, don’t you?” John asked irritably.

“I want to see what you see first. It’s helpful to me to have another set of eyes.”

“It means someone staged this, like you said.”

“Yes, _six months ago_. Longer, most likely. This has been in the works since _before_ you and I met, which means your blog isn’t to blame. It might have been an instigator, but it wasn’t the _cause_.”

“Okay, well, that’s mildly comforting,” John replied, “So what now?”

“We talk to Hope.”

“Hope? The one we arrested?”

“He said someone was watching me, was interested in me. We need to find his employer.”

Sherlock pulled open a drawer and stared down at the famously titled manuscript within.

“Jack the Ripper?” John asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That he isn’t afraid to kill those he considers beneath him.”

A visit to Pentonville produced rather disappointing results. Hope had died that morning, apparently of natural causes. Sherlock did his best to find an alternative, but it really did seem that he’d died from the inoperable aneurism that had been plaguing him. Frustrated, Sherlock dug into his finances and searched through the items that had been packed up from his tiny flat. Nothing produced results. It was as if they were chasing a phantom. Finally the trail died down and they were left chasing their tails and nothing more.

XXX

It was a few days later, while Sherlock was mid-sulk over his failure to solve the Case of the Fake Corpse, that an old owner of Sherlock’s contacted John via his blog with a request that Sherlock take a case for him.

**I realize this is a bit unorthodox, especially considering how Sherly and I left things off, but I’m really in a bind. I’m ready to pay handsomely for his assistance. He knows where to find me. I trust you will be discreet. – SW**

“Well?” John asked, “If we go see him we can get that nice phone and laptop you were eying up. You should have more things.”

Sherlock gave him a blank stare, but then stood slowly and straightened his second-hand suit jacket.

“I have to meet with those fellows about the diamond.”

“That’s… fine. Do you think it will be lucrative? I know Mrs. Hudson is giving us a deal here, but with only one income we’re living hand to mouth.”

“I’ll come up with some money.”

“This ‘SW’ fellow… did he treat you badly?”

“Where’s your laptop?”

“Like the last bloke?” John asked, “Or worse?”

Sherlock sighed, “I’m not a _victim_ , John. I don’t need coddling.”

“Yeah, okay, I know that, but I’m your friend and I’d prefer to…”

A man burst through the door to their flat waving a scimitar and Sherlock was up out of his chair in an instant. John bolted for his gun, but Sherlock was ducking and weaving like a prizefighter. John came in with his weapon to find Sherlock pinned to the table, but the man gave him a sharp glare and ducked out of the man’s grasp, leaving a slash across their kitchen table. John kept his gun trained but trusted Sherlock to handle it and sure enough the man knocked the intruder out with a right hook worthy of a title. John clicked the safety on his gun and slipped it into his waste band to provide Sherlock with the round of applause that deserved.

“Not a victim. Got it. You _let_ that other bloke hit you, didn’t you?” John asked.

“Without a bruise I wouldn’t be released from his ‘care’.”

“Of course. May I kiss you?”

“No. I need to go to the bank.”

The person turned out to be a wealthy man with a smug disposition, just the sort who would own an exotic humanoid cat just to impress his mates. John had a difficult time sitting there listening to him talk about Sherlock to him as if he wasn’t in the room, but eventually they were lead to the scene of the crime and Sherlock perked up.

John watched him dart about the office, his tail perked up and his ears pricked forward with excitement. Finally he announced where they would find the person the message had been for and they headed out once again only to find… a corpse. A felissapien corpse. Who appeared to have killed himself in an impossible way?

“He worked his way all the way up to professional banker only to be bumped off,” John sighed, “What a shame. Do you know why?”

“No, but I have six theories so far,” Sherlock informed him right before a DI they usually didn’t work with showed up and all but threw them out of the crime scene.

A second corpse killed in a similar fashion prompted a trip to the library and then Sherlock contacted a felissapien fellow named Raz to help track down the graffiti they’d been dealing with. They chased a few clues, splitting up for a bit, but all it got them was Sherlock breaking and entering into someone’s flat to come out coughing and looking miserable. He claimed it was a foul scent, but John saw fingerprints on his throat.

 _He’ll tell me when he’s ready_.

John was fighting his frustration over Sherlock’s continued angst with little sleep and a sour flatmate when Sarah called him out of the blue and asked him out on a date. He considered it for a moment and then decided he had to give her a chance. Things were going nowhere with Sherlock, and this time around his brother toting a female in heat wouldn’t harass him. Or at least that was his theory before Sherlock showed up at his date- that he had so charmingly set up for him- with a smirk on his face and a clear ulterior motive.

“Sherlock, this is ridiculous. You have no interest in me, so why are you doing this?” John asked while Sarah was in the loo.

“A Thai circus? And we’re looking for a person capable of scaling walls? Who happens to be linked to a Bangkok smuggling ring?” Sherlock replied, “Think about it, John!”

“The only thing I can think about is trying to get off with Sarah!” John hissed.

“You’re so utterly focused on your libido…” Sherlock muttered in frustration.

“Yeah, I am. See I have this gorgeous flatmate who I can’t touch who flaunts his sexy body in front of me every day and fucks a toy four feet away from me nearly every night.”

“Three and a half feet.”

“Whatever!”

“You _know_ what I am, John. You don’t want me,” Sherlock stated with an annoyed sigh.

“What if I do? Hm? What if I’d rather have you and the pain than Sarah and the pleasure?”

Sarah gasped behind him and John turned around in time to be slapped quite soundly. Sherlock growled at Sarah as she stormed off and then turned and gave John an odd look, his eyes flickering over his face as if he were trying to read him like a book. He probably was.

“Toilet. Now,” Sherlock growled, ears flicking with mixed emotions.

John nodded and they slipped into the men’s toilet and into a stall together. Sherlock undid his trousers and John shivered with anticipation.

“I haven’t got any lube,” John worried, not ready for _quite_ that amount of damage to his person.

“You won’t need it,” Sherlock replied, then pushed at his shoulders until John got the hint and sank to his knees, “You _will_ need to utilize the underside of your tongue. The point of this exercise is to imitate what it would feel like if we engaged in anal penetration with you as the bottom. Your cheeks and the underside of your tongue are the best imitation of that flesh without causing you undue harm since we haven’t got lubricant.”

“Right,” John replied, then leaned forward and nuzzled the small mound that hid his cock sheath from view.

Sherlock gasped and John began to lap at the member sliding slowly into his mouth. For now it felt like an ordinary half-hard cock, complete with foreskin. It had a musky taste to it due to the fluids that kept it moist inside his body. John mouthed it until it slid free completely and then took up an eager bob. His first brush against the barbs had him freezing in place as they caught the inside of his lips.

“Easy,” Sherlock breathed, his hand coming up to rest on the back of John’s head, “My nerve endings are in different places than yours. Focus on the shaft, small movements, no need to tug the barbs until the end.”

 _The end. Of course._ That was why Sherlock thrust into his toy differently than John had. The original purpose of the barbs was to stimulate ovulation in the female through a jolt of pain; the only time when the barbs would truly tug was when he withdrew from John’s body. So the point was to stimulate that in this practice run. John made his lips taught the way a mans anus would be and focused on sucking rather than fully licking as he let the underside of his tongue and the roof of his mouth brush minutely against the barbs while he filated the man eagerly. Sherlock’s legs were trembling, his breath coming in gasps as his hips began to shift subtly forward. His head fell back, slamming into the stall wall, as he moaned out his pleasure enthusiastically.

“John…” Sherlock breathed, “Oh fuck!”

John reached up with one hand and fondled his furred bollocks, moaning softly as he felt them draw up. He could already taste blood in his mouth but that didn’t deter his excitement from drawing such wanton sounds from his best friend. Sherlock’s fingers in his hair suddenly flexed and John gasped around the cock in his mouth as sharp claws dug into his scalp. Sherlock let out a long, low cry and John quickly grasped his mouth around him again and sucked as Sherlock came hard into his mouth. They paused then, John looking up, his mouth still clasped tightly as he swallowed the salty fluids down. Sherlock glanced down, gently removing his claws from John’s scalp, and his raised eyebrow indicated his reluctance to continue.

John finished the job for him and pulled back, his lips being tugged by what felt like a dozen sewing needles. The flesh tore minutely, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought it would be. He gasped and swallowed the blood that flooded his mouth, noticing as he did that the top half wasn’t completely barbed. There was a bare spot.

“John, I…” Sherlock started, but John stood up.

Sherlock braced himself, and John swore when he realized the man was expecting to be hurt.

“I’m not going to hit you, you daft thing,” John growled, and caught his mouth in a hungry kiss. He hauled Sherlock’s leg forward and rutted against it eagerly as he moaned into his mouth.

Sherlock pulled away, “John!”

“Sherlock,” John gasped, tugging on his curls to pull his lips back.

“John, your mouth tastes like blood!”

“Shut up and deal with the free iron, you skinny thing,” John growled, roughly pulling him back down.

Sherlock returned his kiss this time, his tongue snaking into John’s mouth. The rough upper side ran along his abused lips, drawing a groan from him, and began to relentlessly move along each tiny cut. John whimpered, overwhelmed by Sherlock’s tender ministrations. He was effectively cleaning his wounds for him, and John was shaking from the show of unusual gentleness from the usually brisk feline. Sherlock’s hand snaked down and cupped John’s cock through his trousers, fumbling with the buttons until he was able to take John’s bare cock in his hands. John gasped and moaned as the soft pads along his palm and fingers stimulated him in ways he’d never experienced before. His legs nearly went out from under him as he came into the cat’s hand, grasping his shoulders for support.

“Well, that was nice,” A voice stated from the stall beside them as someone zipped up, “Pleasure wanking with you boys.”

“Disgusting,” Sherlock growled as the person washed up and left. John was chuckling against his shoulder, muffling his laughter as best he could.

When John leaned back Sherlock gave him a worried look.

“I’m fine,” John insisted with a smile, “A bit sore, but I’ll heal up in a few days.”

“John, you must realize that this isn’t _possible_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

“I just proved it is,” John replied, leaning forward to kiss him again, but Sherlock pulled away and stubbornly exited the stall, “Damn it, Sherlock! I _want_ this! _You_ want this!”

John followed him out, tugging his trousers closed while Sherlock washed his hands with his trousers still open. He dried them and then did up his clothes while John fumed behind him.

“I _want_ to solve this case!” Sherlock snapped, “You’ve distracted me more than enough. Clearly my attempt to dissuade you was poorly thought out. I won’t underestimate your masochistic trait again in the future.”

“I’m not a masochist, I’m in _love_ with you, you wanker!” John snapped, grabbing his arm before he could exit.

“ _Sentiment_ ,” Sherlock replied with a growl, and pulled free to hurry out into the halls and down to the circus.

John stood there a moment, angry and hurt, before stuffing his emotions down and hurrying out to find his damned detective before he got himself strangled again. John caught up with him in time to find Sherlock was indeed being attacked behind the stage in the dressing area, and together they tackled the woman only to be thrust out into the main scene where a felissapien was doing a shockingly beautiful act involving long bits of fabric. The crowd fled when they began to fight, but the felissapien dropped down and joined in and Sherlock and John were quickly overwhelmed. Sherlock took to fighting the felissapien while John took on the old woman who was alarmingly talented. She had a small dagger that he had failed to get away from her several times. Finally he managed to break her wrist and it was only a moment later that he got in a hit that floored her.

John turned to see Sherlock and the felissapien prowling around each other, low growls emanating from them both. The thin fellow with the mask on was clearly athletic enough to rival Sherlock. Then Sherlock’s tail flicked and he turned his back on the other tom, standing stiff and still with his tail lowered submissively until the felissapien turned and fled, collecting his mistress along the way.

“What… why…” John stared after them, not willing to do what Sherlock intentionally had not, “Sherlock, _why_?”

“So he can lead us to our next break in the case. Come, John. We must crack that cipher.”

XXX

Sherlock’s contacts on the street led them to a massive amount of the code and they were soon back to seeking out the missing woman from the museum. Sherlock insisted that she had never left, so they headed back to the museum at night and John helped him break in. They waited patiently, Sherlock’s tail slowly swaying back and forth, with their eyes on a grate some distance away. Sherlock had calculated the way scent would carry and determined this the safest vantage point. As John watched his almost-lover in the dim room he could actually see the moment his pupils started dilating in excitement, his ears slowly dropping back as he became completely focused on the vent. John missed the first few movements, but he couldn’t miss the sight of it lifting up and moving aside. A lithe figure slipped out and John felt as if his eyes were dilating as well as she slipped towards the tea sets once more. Sherlock moved quickly and quietly and just managed to stop one of them dropping to the ground.

“Centuries old. Don’t want to break that.”

Sherlock sat her down and began to question her carefully, producing the ciphers they had found on the streets. The young woman brought out an _A-Z London Street Atlas,_ explaining her past and the smuggling ring she and her brother had been involved with while looking through it slowly as Sherlock paced to one side. Finally she handed him the decoded cipher.

**Collection of cat in Two Two One Bee Baker Street House 200,000 return to M.**

“M?” Sherlock asked, “Who is M?”

“They do not speak his name,” Suree* replied softly.

“Oh, do try your hardest,” Sherlock insisted with a frustrated sigh.

“Moriarty,” She whispered softly.

“Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, “Moriarty who?”

“He is a spider,” Suree whispered, “Whose web extends to all of Great Britain. Every time prey moves upon it he feels its movements and weaves the lives of those it ensnares to suit his purpose.”

“Well that wasn’t at all vague and mysterious,” John scoffed, “How about a first name?”

“I do not know it,” Suree replied.

“Is he Thai?” Sherlock asked.

“No, British.”

“What does he _do?_ How does he _do it?_ ” Sherlock demanded in frustration.

“He arranges things. He fixes peoples problems.”

“So?” John asked, “So does Sherlock.”

Suree turned to meet John’s eyes, her dusky face accenting her huge blue eyes as her dark ears pricked from side to side in consideration, “When _he_ fixes things… people die.”

“Oh, well, that’s a bit not good,” John replied, glancing up at Sherlock.

The felissapien had frozen in place, head cocked to one side. A glance at Suree showed that she had her ears pricked forward as well. John slowly rose to his feet and pulled his gun from the back of his trousers. John was watching Sherlock. In such a short time he knew him and knew him well. He understood him in ways that he had never known he could understand a person. He could _read_ him. Feel him from across the room. Breathe in his thoughts.

So when Sherlock’s eyes darted to the left, John spun and fired a shot at the first sniper-perch he saw. A felissapien toppled towards the ground, colored fabric fluttering gracefully before catching around his throat and hanging him as if it were a gallows. The body swung in from the second story balcony and Suree screamed behind him, hands going to her face as she began to shake and sob. John had a moment of panic, but a glance at Sherlock calmed him. He’d done what needed doing. The man’s half nod confirmed it.

“He would have killed you, Suree,” Sherlock stated, “You should be grateful.”

“He was my _brother!_ ” Suree sobbed.

Suree bolted forward, her feet flying to strike tiny ledges in the stonework pillars. She leapt to one side and caught the fabric, hanging from it gracefully while she unwound it from his neck. They both dropped down and she knelt by the corpse, sobbing as she pulled his head into her lap.

“Sherlock?” John asked worriedly.

“It was necessary,” Sherlock replied, “He killed the banker and would have killed others.”

“Why?”

“The Banker was working for the same organization, and in contact with this _Moriarty_. He was helping them smuggle things into the country… including people. He got the circus into London, but his silence was too important to buy. Hence his death.”

“And Suree? Why kill his own sister?”

“You heard her story. She ‘abandoned’ them. It was business, pure and simple. Tying up loose ends.”

“That’s just… horrid,” John replied.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Shall we go? I doubt she’ll turn you in, there’s too much at stake for her if she’s found out. She’ll need to disappear in the chaos that follows the loss of their best assassin. We should go. The trail hasn’t quite gone cold; we’ll need to regroup. Now that we’ve got the cipher we need to find as many codes as possible and translate them quickly. Raz will have located as many as possible and he’ll meet us at Baker Street.”

“Where hordes of bounty hunters are waiting to take you to this Moriarty fellow?”

Sherlock ignored him and John followed quickly after as he strode away from the sobbing feline and her sibling on the floor.

*Suree: Female name meaning ‘Sun’ in Thai

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

“Well, that’s only four,” John stated as he stared over Sherlock’s shoulder at the screen of his new laptop, “That’s not a bad start.”

“It’s not a good one, either,” Sherlock replied, closing the browser, “That’s just London. Suree told us he his organization extended all over the _world_.”

“It’s been three weeks, Sherlock,” John soothed, petting his hair gently, “The trail’s gone cold. They cipher’s been changed; we just need to wait it out. He’ll turn up.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock groaned, lifting up a bit to press into John’s hand.

“You’ve not been yourself lately.”

“You’ve not known me long enough to know what I’m like,” Sherlock scoffed.

“You play your violin, compose sad songs, you haven’t touched your lovey since-“

Sherlock was up out of his chair and pacing in frustration, “What can I do to make you see you need to _leave this alone_!”

“-Since the circus,” John finished softly, “Which I the last time I brought this up. Sherlock, I’m _worried_ about you. Just let me-“

“No!”

“-pet you.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Sherlock headed for the couch, his hands fluttering anxiously, and John joined him. The cat was across his lap and kneading a pillow frantically in next to no time. John slowly stripped off his button down, sliding his arms free with little cooperation from the feline. Once his black and white torso was revealed John began a slow stroke that was guaranteed to sooth the savage beast. Sherlock was purring in no time, his body arching and flexing beneath John’s hands.

“Your body looks like it’s still wearing a suit,” John chuckled.

Sherlock snorted, “That’s why I prefer them. They suit me… literally.”

John laughed again, “That’s better. Sounding more like yourself already.”

Sherlock groaned, stilling suddenly and straightening up to tug his trousers open. His cock was erect and John winced in sympathy when Sherlock carefully loosed the barbs from the fabric of his boxers, sucking air through his teeth in pain.

“You see?” Sherlock growled in frustration, “This is what I mean! The less I have to be aroused by the better.”

“I’m sorry,” John soothed, “Do you want me to fetch your lovey? Or suck you off again?”

“No, just… keep petting me,” Sherlock sighed, laying down on his back across John’s lap.

His body arched beautifully and John found himself rubbing his belly while trying not to eye up his prick as it throbbed while peaking out of his open clothes. Sherlock moaned softly arching into the strokes.

“Firmly,” Sherlock panted, wriggling his white belly.

John began to stroke him firmly in wide circles and Sherlock’s inner eyelids slid closed as his pleasure mounted. John glanced down and saw what was going to happen a split second before Sherlock’s cock spurted onto his belly and John’s arm, completely untouched. The feline let out a sigh of relief and dropped instantly to sleep, still purring softly. John smiled softly and un-tucked his shirt carefully so he could use it to mop up the cat’s release. He was hard as a rock, but he wouldn’t disturb Sherlock for the world. He continued petting his hair gently, tucking the Union Jack pillow behind his head and letting himself drift off as well.

John woke to feel Sherlock squirming in his lap, but a glance down showed it wasn’t in pleasure. The felissapien was in the throws of a nightmare, shouting out and throwing his hands over his now sheathed privates.

“No! No! Please! Don’t! I won’t! I… I…”

“Sherlock, wake up,” John called, putting a hand out to shake the cat awake.

John saw the moment Sherlock went from defensive to offensive in the tilt of his hears and threw his arms up to cover his face. Claws lashed out, slicing the backs of his arms open while John swore in pain.

“Oh my gods! John!” Sherlock scrambled up, straddling his hips and tugging his arms from his face so he could look at them, “I was asleep, I…”

“It’s fine,” John soothed.

“It is _not_ fine!”

“It’s all fine, Sherlock,” John repeated, “Let me see how bad it is.”

Sherlock’s sharp claws had left eight long gashes and two small ones in his arms. They were bleeding profusely and would need stitches. John didn’t think he could patch them up on his own before he lost far too much blood, especially since his dominant arm was injured. Sherlock must have agreed because he was already on the phone calling for Lestrade to drive them to the A&E while John snatched off his shirt and used it to stem the flow. Sherlock got off the phone and sat by his side, helping him hold one arm while he held the other.

“Even pressure,” John stated when Sherlock started to fidget again.

“I didn’t mean to harm you.”

“I know you didn’t. I should have found a better way to wake you up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s fine.”

“ _Why_ do you keep _saying_ that?!”

“Because it is.”

“Why will you endure pain for me, John? Tell me that?”

“Because you’re worth it.”

“But I am not _worthy_ of it!”

“Yeah. You are,” John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes firm, using his captain’s voice to cut off any argument, “Look, as long as we’re on the subject I’ve been doing some research. There are devices out there to let barbed cats have normal, healthy sex lives. There are these plastic sheaths that can go over your cock and-“

“-And special gloves, and I can bottom, and I can fuck my lovey while you can fuck me, or you can use a toy on me. Yes. I’m aware.”

“If you’re… wait… you knew?”

“Yes.”

“You knew there was a plastic thing that could cover your barbs so we could have _painless_ sex.”

“Yes.”

“For _exactly_ how long did you know?” John asked, his temper rising.

“Years,” Sherlock shrugged, “Since one of my owners forced them on me.”

John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock off about that painful blowjob when his words registered.

“Forced? _Forced_ them on you?”

Sherlock nodded, adjusting his grip on John’s blood-soaked shirt, “She had me wear that plastic sheath- which makes sex highly frustrating by the way- and pegged me rather often. I’ve developed a dislike for women since then.”

“Shit, I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I won’t bring them up again.”

“It wasn’t all bad. She meant well, didn’t mistreat me. It was just…” Sherlock’s face flickered and he frowned, “You’re turning pale. The ambulance should be here soon. How are you doing?”

“I’m a bit dizzy,” John admitted, “But us talking is keeping me here.”

“Then why don’t I tell you about…?”

Lestrade burst through the door, his face ashen and ran straight for them.

“How bad is it? How much damage did he do this time?” Lestrade asked.

“Hard to say,” Sherlock answered, but John noticed the man wasn’t talking to Sherlock. He’d been asking John _about_ Sherlock. Lestrade caught on to what was happening a second later.

“Wait,” Lestrade paused, “ _You’re_ hurt, John?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, “Bit of an accident.”

Then he noticed Sherlock’s trousers were undone and half off and John’s wounds appeared to be defensive.

Lestrade’s face looked thunderous, “Accident or…?”

“What? No! Sherlock and I were tussling and he let out his claws on my arm instead of the couch. It was my fault for goofing off with a felissapien.”

“Relax, Lestrade,” Sherlock added, “It isn’t what it looks like. If it was, would I be helping him after?”

“No, I suppose not. Lucky it was that side and not the other,” Lestrade stated with a relieved sigh, “You’d have bled out.”

“Yeah, lucky break,” John nodded.

“Let’s get you to A&E. You okay to walk?”

“Sure,” John replied, and then nearly fell when he tried to stand, “Really, I’m fine…”

Shut up,” Sherlock ordered, helping John to lean on him as they headed out the door.

“Maybe call an ambulance next time,” Lestrade replied, “He looks bad.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sherlock insisted, sitting in the back seat with John and helping him continue to put pressure on his arm, “This one’s almost stopped bleeding but the trip downstairs aggravated the other. A few stitches, perhaps just proper bandaging for the four of them, and he’ll be fine.”

“Meanwhile you can keep me from shock by telling me why Lestrade thought _you_ were the one in serious danger back there,” John insisted.

“I didn’t elaborate on the phone,” Sherlock replied staunchly, “Just told him we needed a lift to the A&E.”

“Yeah, but why did he come in asking how much damage you’d done to _yourself_ … _Again_?” John insisted.

Sherlock sighed and Lestrade grumbled from up front before stating, “You’d better tell him, Sherlock. It might stop him from making the same mistakes she did.”

“The one with the toys?” John asked.

“So you know?” Lestrade questioned.

“Not all, I’m assuming.”

Sherlock sighed, “It wasn’t her fault.”

“No one’s blaming anyone, Sherlock,” Lestrade replied soothingly, “It was an ugly situation all the way around.”

“Unfortunate words,” Sherlock grumbled.

John saw Lestrade wince in the mirror, “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re not ugly, Sherlock.”

“She told you, you were ugly?” John asked, re-evaluating his stance on killing women.

“No. Her actions did. Without meaning to Irene communicated her dislike for my genitalia through her actions. She meant to make our sex life possible, but the end result was that I began to hate myself so thoroughly… I took action rather than remain passive.”

“What kind of action?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

Lestrade sighed after a few minutes, but they had pulled into the A&E so he promised to explain it to John later. Sherlock and Lestrade waited in the A&E’s visitors’ room until John was stitched up, given a shot, and sent out the door.

“They wanted to know if you’ve ever had ring worms,” John stated as he headed back in to meet them, “I told I didn’t know, so they pulled up your chart and gave me a shot.”

Sherlock snorted, “I’m _clean_. I no longer live on the streets… or the slightly less horrible alternative.”

“Yeah, and lets avoid that happening again. I got a look at that chart while they had it up on the computer. Fucking hell, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s face clouded and he stood up, fit to stride off, but Lestrade stepped in his way.

“Look, Sherlock, he _cares_. Just let him try.”

“You nearly _died_ ,” John stated, “I didn’t get a chance to read the whole thing, but ‘trauma’, ‘self-inflicted’, and ‘severe blood loss’ tend to stand out on a screen!”

“Let’s take this home, yeah?” Lestrade urged.

John nodded and Sherlock agreed with a reluctant sigh. John couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock chose to sit up front with Lestrade this time.

“Okay, look, this is pretty bad and really personal, so just try to stay calm, John, and realize that he was pretty young when this happened.”

“How young? Cor, I don’t even know how old you are now!”

“Seven,” Sherlock replied.

“Bloody hell, I could be your _dad_.”

“Unlikely, humans and felissapiens are unable to crossbreed.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Lestrade interrupted, “Sherlock was about three at the time.”

John nodded. Felissapiens reached sexual maturity at about eight months, but legally couldn’t become sexually active with Felissapiens over five or humans until at least two years old so they had time to mature emotionally as well. Sherlock was young, but well above legal.

“He was adopted by Irene Adler,” Lestrade continued, “She was experienced with Felissapiens but had never owned a barbed one before. She and Sherlock really hit it off. I didn’t meet him until about a year later when they’d been together for some time. When I met him Sherlock was pretty damn depressed for someone in love. Mycroft worried Adler was abusing him, but he insisted she treated him well. Then one day I walked into their house to drop off some paperwork for Sherlock. No one else was home, but I had a key because we figured we were family what with owning two brothers. I found Sherlock drunk off his arse and lying in a puddle of blood.”

Lestrade sighed, rubbed at his face for a moment, and glanced in the rear view mirror while he waited for a light to change. John was silent. He could tell the man was bracing himself to repeat back something horrible, but before he could get the chutzpa together to tell him Sherlock finished the story.

“I’d attempted to remove the barbs along my penis using a pair of finger nail clippers.”

“Oh my gods,” John breathed, recalling the bare patch on Sherlock’s member when he’d been filating him. _And here I was relieved!_

“Her good intentions left him thinking his body was deformed, that he needed to alter himself to make her happy,” Lestrade continued, “He was institutionalized for a few days- they wouldn’t keep him longer despite him needing it- and while he was they advised him to break ties with her.”

“They advised me,” Sherlock stated coldly, “Not to involve myself with anyone who couldn’t accept my body _exactly_ how it is, how I was born; that unless they were able to have a _healthy, normal sex life_ with my _natural_ self that I would be better off in a shelter.”

John felt sick. In fact he felt sick enough to ask Lestrade to pull over and then clamored out of the car to dry heave in an alley. A padded hand on his back told him Sherlock had followed.

“Oh fucking hell, Sherlock,” John choked, “I am _so fucking sorry_.”

Sherlock sighed, “Do you need to go back to hospital or…”

“No, this isn’t from the cuts.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sherlock replied, “But you’re not well and-“

“I’m _fine_. Apparently I’m an asshole, but I’m fine.”

Sherlock snickered, “You’re not an asshole. I _like_ assholes.”

“Oh, cheers,” John replied miserably, then straightened up and turned around without having done more than gag for a few minutes.

“You on the other hand I…” Sherlock gave John an odd look, then glanced away and hurried back to the car leaving John confused and feeling guilty.

Lestrade dropped them off at home and they both sank into their respective chairs. John had been an emotional wreck before, but Sherlock was the bury-your-feelings-and-pretend-they-don’t-exist sort. Oh, John knew he had them, despite his claims, but they were hard to read when he was too stunned to deal with them. He’d stop moving his ears and tail and John couldn’t follow his emotions no matter how hard he tried. Finally he gave up trying and went for talking despite the fact it had already backfired on him with Sherlock more than once.

“Okay just… tell me what you want me to do? Move out? Maybe I can get the room upstairs and stay there now we’ve got a bit of money from your cases. That way you won’t have to…”

Sherlock all but launched himself at John, climbing into his lap and latching onto his lips. John gasped as his teeth nipped John’s lips, but didn’t fight him. He just wrapped his arms around the feline’s body and held him tight. When Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder he reached up and gently stroked his curls, scratching behind his ears and making soothing sounds while the feline purred softly.

“Bed?” John asked.

“Bed,” Sherlock agreed.

They climbed into Sherlock’s bed together, Sherlock spooning John and holding him tightly. His lovey lay discarded on the floor where he’d kicked it before tugging John in with him.

XXX

They were taking things slow. John was fine with that. Honestly, he was. It was better to have Sherlock _almost_ with him and healthy than away from him and/or unhealthy. As it was they occasionally bunked up together and had shared his lovey once as well, this time while kissing passionately. It had been wonderful, brilliant, and satisfying. Sherlock hadn’t gotten moody or declared things impossible afterwards, though he had gone off in a fit of excitement to start an experiment. And all that had happened in… six months.

Then one day John had woken up and Sherlock and his lovey were gone.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing John did was text him. The second was make tea, because Sherlock disappearing wasn’t shocking. Until he sat down at his laptop and saw an email marked _Baskerville_ with the e-mail sender listed as J. Moriarty. John’s stomach plunged. It was a video. A man named Henry Knight was explaining how he… used to be a cat?

_“I never actually identified as a cat,” Henry Knight explained, “And this was frustrating to me, because when people saw me that was the first thing they saw. They didn’t see my personality- no matter how I tried to express it outwardly- they didn’t see my soul. That was tearing me apart inside. So when the Baskerville compound put out a notice asking for felissapiens to step forward as test subjects I eagerly volunteered! It was a chance to feel like I was wearing the right skin, instead of being trapped in a body that I never identified with.”_

John felt as if his stomach was twisting into a tiny little ball in preparation of climbing out of his throat. A woman appeared on the screen next, indicating a facility behind her.

_“This is Baskerville- a military testing site that has been locked down from the public for years. In the last two years they have opened their doors to those who wish to alter their bodies or DNA. They are offering procedures to both homosapien and felissapien alike to change them from one to the other, whether it is physical appearance or all the way down to the genetic level.”_

John was on the phone instantly, calling up Lestrade and frantically asking to speak to Mycroft.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Mycroft growled into the phone.

“Sherlock’s gone, and I think it’s to a facility that _changes_ felissapiens into humans,” John spat out, “I don’t think he went there for himself. I think it’s part of a case, or he was kidnapped or…”

Another person had appeared on the video, a Dr Stapleton. She was explaining their procedure.

_“While we can’t create a pure bred felissapien, we can alter the DNA enough to allow breeding to be possible. This is especially important to those in romantic relationships with the other species who wish to start a family. The biggest issue we have now is that the resultant offspring have never been tested. We are asking couples to come in and…”_

John tuned her out. Mycroft had let out a long-suffering sigh and was replying.

“Let me guess. He left you a _clue_ rather than actually telling you what he was doing?”

“Yeah, but this place called Baskerville? I’ve heard of it before and…”

“Oh, good for you. So has _every felissapien in the world_. Again. Why are you bothering me at 9 AM?”

“It’s got a nasty reputation for _losing_ its test subjects and…!”

“They aren’t _lost_ , doctor. They die.”

“And you’re _fine_ with this?!”

Mycroft sighed, “Sherlock isn’t going in for a dangerous surgery, doctor. He’s just going in to have his barbs removed. It’s available at other hospitals, but the best doctors are at Baskerville. He’ll be fine.”

John’s brain flailed, “I thought he wanted to be accepted _with_ them.”

“I really have no idea,” Mycroft sighed, “ _You’re_ his boyfriend, you should be keeping track of these things.”

“Last we discussed it… He went voluntarily? When will he be back?”

“The surgery is brief, but there is counseling before and after since they’ll be altering a significant part of his anatomy. They’ll also want him to stay until he is physically and mentally healed enough to attain erection and sexual release. It all depends on how well he deals with the situation,” Mycroft stated, his tone one of disgust and amusement.

“Okay. We can go there today, just let me ask off work…”

“Doctor… why are you talking to me about this?”

John paused and flashed back to the last time he’d spoken to Mycroft.

_“Dinner, John? Why do we have to have dinner with my thrice damned brother?” Sherlock whined._

_“Because he’s family and family is all we have in the end,” John had responded before knocking on Lestrade’s door._

_Molly answered and welcomed them in. A few minutes after they exchanged all their pleasantries Molly headed back to the kitchen to finish dinner while Lestrade sat down after pouring them all wine. John waited for him to glance away and then spilled the wine all over his shirt and swore loudly. Lestrade laughed at his clumsiness and passed him some napkins before heading to his room to get John a shirt to wear for the night._

_John acted the second he was gone, striding quickly to where Mycroft was stretched out on the couch like a model posing for a nude painting, and grasped him by his throat. He pinned him firmly against the arm of the couch. Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, asking John what the hell he thought he was doing in a frantic whisper._

_“You,” John growled, “You_ ever _fuck with your brother like that again and I’ll have a new orange throw rug in front of my fire. Understand me?”_

_“John, this is ridiculous…” Sherlock whispered, “You’ve no idea what sort of contacts he has!”_

_“Understand?” John demanded of Mycroft._

_Mycroft nodded, a knowing smirk on his face._

_John released him and calmly dabbed at his shirt with the napkins. Lestrade walked in and he headed for the bathroom to change clothes. When he returned Sherlock was sitting beside Mycroft licking his neck. John did a double take, surprised at the show of affection, but both feline’s were giving him an odd look. Sherlock looked as if he wanted to tear John’s clothes off. Mycroft was looking smug, as if John had just proven something he’d already theorized. He probably had. Lestrade was… oblivious. Perfect._

_When they’d gone home John had been shocked to have Sherlock throw him down on the bed and suck him off with a passion that left him nearly faint. They had never spoken of it again and their nearly absent sex life had gone back to normal the next day._

“You’re his brother, I figure he’d talk to you. Clearly he did.”

“No, he didn’t. I found out, like I usually do, through my network.”

“Those contacts Sherlock mentioned.”

“Yes. My contacts. If that is all?”

“Do you have their number?”

“I believe it is on the video you currently have paused.”

John froze. Glanced down at his laptop screen then stared uncomfortably at his phone.

“How did you…?”

“Goodbye, John.”

The call ended and John was left glancing around their flat in alarm. It wasn’t until he had stood up and started packing his bags that he realized he’d never mentioned Moriarty to Mycroft. He’d been too shocked when he realized Sherlock had gone in willingly. He paused a moment to text Mycroft.

**Moriarty sent me the video.**

**Your point? – M**

**He’s dangerous.**

**Your point? – M**

**He’s your brother! Don’t you care?**

**Goodnight John. - M**

XXX

A week passed and John still hadn’t heard from Sherlock or managed to get a result from the many calls he’d made to the facility. He always hit a machine and no matter what combination of buttons he hit he couldn’t get a person on the phone. He was able to leave a message for Sherlock, but he had yet to be called back.

After another week John was ready to pull his hair out so he decided to try to think like Sherlock. He went out and bought a disposable phone and called the place up again.

 **Welcome to Baskerville Test Site’s Call Line. Please listen carefully as our menu has changed.**  
Press 1 for Welsh.  
Press 2 if you are biologically a felissapien.  
Press 3 if you are biologically a homosapien.  
  


John hit three and waited.

 **Press 1 if you are a past test subject.**  
Press 2 if you wish to volunteer for an experiment.  
Press 3 if you are looking to transition from homosapien to felissapien.

John hit three and held his breath.

**Please wait for the next available representative.**

John leaned against a tree in the park and sat on hold for two hours straight, glad he’d bought a ton of minutes for the phone for this very eventuality. Finally the annoyingly tinny classical music- pure torture after hearing Sherlock’s gorgeous violin playing- clicked off and John held his breath once more until a voice came on the line.

“Hello, my name is counselor Theresa. How may I be of assistance?” A woman with a lovely Scottish accent stated clearly.

“Oh, yes, hello, um…” John’s brain went blank, and then he pulled himself together, “I’m looking to transition into a felissapien. A brown tabby-striped tom, to be specific.”

“I see. That is a very difficult and painful procedure. Have you discussed it with a therapist before?”

“No,” John replied, “I’ve been seeing a therapist, but we haven’t discussed it. It’s just something I’ve always felt, you know? It doesn’t feel like it needs discussing. I’m a [furry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Furry_fandom)… you know what a furry is?”

“Of course,” Theresa replied mildly.

“Well, I live as a furry 24/7… my boss is pretty understanding,” John chuckled and the woman echoed it.

“You sound very well adjusted. I’d like to meet with you and discuss your options. Can you come to Dartmoor?”

“No problem. I already told my boss I might need time off. When can you see me?”

“Immediately.”

XXX

John cleared his calendar, called out of work, and packed a bag. Then he headed to the bathroom with an enema kit, a buttplug, a special gun Sherlock had designed and often carried, a rubber band, and a plastic bag. John took the plastic gun apart, keeping the plastic bullets in the hilt, and placed it carefully in the bag, arranging the entire thing and wrapping it up tight with the rubber band. It was still far larger than he was comfortable with, but he _had_ to manage this. Taking a deep breath John used the enema kit and then waited out the results. He stretched himself with the plug, using ridiculous amounts of lubricant, and then cut part of the plug off and used the end of the rubber band to tie the bag to the plug. Taking a deep breath, John knelt in the bathtub and squatted down on the wrapped gun, slowly pushing it into his body. Once he hit a certain point his body started sucking it in on it’s own and John groaned at the full feeling. Finally the entire thing was in place and he swallowed down the sick feeling that was nearly overwhelming him at what he’d just done.

 _The human body can accommodate quite a bit. I’ll be fine_.

Four hours later John was checking into the facility with a fake ID he’d found in Sherlock’s room after searching the place from top to bottom. He’d known about Sherlock’s stash of fake IDs, but he’d been rather thrilled to find he had several for John as well. It was one of Lestrade’s cards, but had been modified to have John’s picture on it. Since he’d never mentioned it to John the doctor figured he’d done it out of boredom rather than a plan to actually sneak John in someplace. He also had several IDs for himself making his name to be Mycroft Holmes. They looked alarmingly official, which drew a few questions for John. Starting with whom Mycroft Holmes really was that he had government access. John had brought one of those IDs with him, just in case they needed it.

John checked into a little B&B in the country first, having been told he wouldn’t be admitted to the facility until he passed several tests and had a week of counseling. John had watched several clips online regarding transgender modification and transsapien modification to prepare himself for the conversations he’d be facing. He _had_ to convince them to admit him.

XXX

John was surprised he felt so comfortable in the neck to ankle, striped bodysuit. The light velvet material felt damn good, in fact. He spent a few minutes running his hands over his torso and missing Sherlock with a painful jolt before sitting down to put on the makeup he’d bought and glue the ears over his own. He had thought of getting actual cat ears, but he thought it was too stereotypical so he’d gone with pointed ears that he painted to match his facial make-up. Fake teeth followed that and John smiled at his reflection. He’d spent the entire car ride practicing talking and even singing with the snap-on prosthetics. His final addition was a light sheen of nail polish over his fingernails, which he’d sharpened to a point some days before. He glanced in the mirror at the dye job he’d carefully sprayed on his hair the night before and nodded. A striped tabby tom looked back at him from the mirror. All he needed now were the contacts, but they irritated his eyes to no end. He had to use them, though. Someone who legitimately felt that their bodies were the wrong species wouldn’t let discomfort dissuade them, so John took a breath and got them in after about a dozen tries.

Red eyed and feeling a bit odd due to his outfit, John headed out the door of his room and down to the rental car. He drove the gated facility and presented the printed out pass he’d been e-mailed. They scanned the barcode and welcomed him in. John drove up to the lot and got out of the car, shaking hands with the guard who met him.

“I didn’t really expect a military escort,” John stated with mock anxiety, “Has something gone wrong?”

“No, sir. This _is_ still a military base. Please come this way Mr… Lestrade?”

“Greg is fine.”

They headed in and John was treated to a mini tour. From a hallway with broad windows for each room he was able to look in on several humans and felissapiens as they relaxed, engaged in group therapy, and ate their lunch.

“Through there are the bedrooms, each person has a room mate. I’m afraid they’re modified from the old prison that was here once, so they’re not what I would call cozy.”

“Locked doors on volunteer test subjects?” John asked in alarm.

“Oh, no, of course not! The locks have been replaced with proper doorknobs. The benefit is that each room does have a curtained off water closet. Not something I’d want to be my only toilet, but there’s a bathroom down that hall there as well, complete with private showers.”

“Well that’s a relief,” John laughed, but he was beginning to feel more and more disappointed. He hadn’t seen Sherlock anywhere.

He sat with the counselor and discussed his options, wants, and views of himself. He must have put on a convincing act, mostly by imitating Sherlock, because she finished off by telling him he was a prime candidate.

“We do need you to complete a physical with our doctors. It’s quite invasive, but completely necessary. I’m afraid only A, B, and AB blood types are able to complete the DNA surgery. What is your blood type?”

“A,” John grinned, “See, it’s in my blood!”

The woman laughed lightly, “I’m glad. I’d hate to have to relegate you to the physical alterations only group.”

“Fantastic. When can we start?”

“I’ll send you down to the lab for the physical now. We’ll have the results within an hour and in the mean time you can join our group therapy session at… Four.”

“Fantastic!” John declared, hopping up, “I can’t thank you enough!”

He shook her hand and then brought his palm to his mouth lick at it as they headed out the door, “I’ll be so glad when I don’t have to worry about makeup ending up in my mouth again.”

“I’m sure!” She laughed.

The physical was beyond invasive. They didn’t just look him over; they looked him in and out. He was glad he was given privacy for the fecal sample. There was no way he’d be able to produce one with a gun in the way! Since he’d been warned it was invasive he hid the gun in the bank of the toilet tank. Sure enough, they scoped him from both ends, prodded his urethra, ran him through a CT scan, EKG, and ultrasound. By the time he was done he was sure he’d developed hypochondria.

“Well, doc,” John grinned as he sat uncomfortably down on a chair, “Will I live?”

“I think so,” The doctor laughed, “Your blood work and other results will be back in about an hour. Private Edwards will take you to group therapy in the mean time.”

“I hate to put the breaks on this, but all my stuff is still in my room in…”

“It’s been brought here.”

John blinked. “That’s great! I can’t wait to finally be myself!”

 _Oh. Oh shit. This is NOT normal_. _Who rushes a surgery like this? Especially a life altering one? They got my stuff? I’m starting therapy NOW? Sherlock where are you?!_

John’s question was answered a moment later when he was walked down yet another hallway full of window-sporting rooms. To his right was an indoor greenhouse large enough to be a gymnasium, complete with grass growing on the ground, potted bushes, and even small trees. To his left was a lounge that looked like a living room. After it was a smoking lounge, and it was here that he spied Sherlock, pacing and snarling at someone who was smoking a cigarette. John recognized the fellow as Henry Knight.

_What is he still doing here if he was a success?_

“Sir?” Private Edwards called.

“Hm? Oh, sorry, it’s just that fellow in there is gorgeous. Who is he?”

“Which one?” Edwards asked, coming back to where John was staring openly at Sherlock.

“The black and white tom.”

“Ah, his first name is Sherlock. We don’t give out last names here.”

“Sherlock, that’s a bit unusual.”

“Yeah, well, felissapiens don’t have standard names. A lot of people get their names legally chaned after their surgery.”

“Yeah, I was considering a few, but I haven’t decided. It’s funny how that’s a harder decision than getting my DNA changed!” John laughed and gestured for them to continue.

He was led to group therapy and given an access card at the door with his room number on it, “The doctor will take you to your room after for another private session, then you’ll be free to wander the rec rooms.”

“Thanks, mate. Cheers.”

John stepped into therapy and tried not to fidget with boredom for the next hour. When it finally ended he tried to slip away, but the doctor caught him at the door and they headed back to his rooms where his things had indeed been moved in. They spoke for a while, going over his test results when they were brought down, and John was shocked at the depths they went to with him. They discussed how the DNA alteration would make him sterile, what his sexual preferences were, what his gender identification was, and if he wanted to save some virile human sperm or not. John answered as honestly as possible just so he wouldn’t have to recall his answers later.

Finally he was told he could go out to the rec area and he all but bolted from the room. John hurried to where he’d last seen Sherlock, but of course he wasn’t there anymore. He checked the rest of the rooms and got the same results, making sure he appeared to be exploring since there was absolutely no doubt that he was being watched. He even made a show of sniffing at door jams and preening when an attractive cat walked by.

Finally he gave up on finding the tom and headed back to his room. He figured if he kept walking around it would get suspicious so he pretended to nap for a bit. His roommate wandered in, gave him a sniff, and then climbed into the bunk above him. After the creature’s breathing had evened out John slipped out of his room, taking his shampoo, a towel, and a bar of soap with him as an excuse. He walked slowly down the hall, pausing to sniff at each door. They all had small, barred windows, but they’d been covered with curtains for the sake of privacy. John thought it would be a bit much to peer past each one, but he was hoping that if he passed each doorway Sherlock would eventually catch his scent and come out to join him on his own… that was assuming he wasn’t in some other sleeping area.

A door opened behind him and John turned around hopefully, but it was a pretty tabby cat. She was purring softly and giving John a hungry look.

“Hi there, you looking for someone?”

“Um, yeah,” John tried, “I’m looking for a tom cat I saw earlier. Black and white, really tall, really full lips…”

She laughed, “You’re wasting your time. Sherlock’s a jerk. No one talks to him except Henry, and that’s only because Sherlock came here to rescue him or something.”

“Rescue him?”

“Henry insists he’s being kept here against his will, but we all know that’s bollocks. He’s crazy. He’s been off the facility several times, but claims he’s never left it since his surgery. I saw him on the video and he wasn’t here then. Sherlock insists he saw him ‘blinking S.O.S.’ during the video and came to save him from some evil crime lord.”

John’s jaw dropped. How the _hell_ had he missed that?

“Oh relax,” The girl laughed, “He’s full of crazy. How about _we_ rub tails for a bit.”

She turned her back towards him, smiling over her shoulder, and turned her tail to one side while arching her spine. John had seen Sherlock do this on occasion, but he usually didn’t accompany it with a flirty look. John had a feeling he wasn’t reading Sherlock as well as he’d thought.

“Sorry, but I’m more into toms,” John smiled.

She scoffed, looking insulted, “Your loss.”

John continued his meandering, but the feeling of being watched just kept increasing despite there being no sign of anyone around him. John headed into the showers and stepped up to the last stall, so he would have a wall at one side. He washed up before heading back to his room to re-dress in a similar outfit- sans the makeup, teeth, and contacts. He curled up to sleep, the scent of his felissapien roommate making him more lonesome for Sherlock than ever.

 


	9. Chapter 9

The next day John had therapy first thing in the morning. He spent it watching the felissapiens around him, trying to figure out which group he was in and if Sherlock was likely to be in a different one. He discovered pre-op and post-op had different groups, which was something he’d expected, but what he didn’t know was if they were kept separate outside of therapy or if Sherlock had been through surgery already. He’d passed Sherlock once, so he didn’t think so. It was probable that they’d missed each other due to Sherlock’s odd sleeping schedules. Apparently, they held therapy at night as well to accommodate felissapiens who preferred to be nocturnal.

So John spent the day pretending to yawn and doze off, but what he was really doing was watching those around him while he lounged on the couch. He also did his best to spread his scent around since felissapiens tended to sniff everything around them. He rubbed his cheek against the door jams and furniture, hoping to bring Sherlock to him. What he didn’t consider was that some of the felissapiens would take offense at his ‘marking’ in their ‘territory’, especially since he couldn’t smell where each tom’s territory was. The end result was laughable as hell, but he knew he had to act pissed off or he’d blow his cover. So he sat there and growled at the tom that was literally _shitting_ in the middle of the floor. While making eye contact with him. And growling. John lay stretched out on one of the many couches and growled until the tom was out of sight, doing his best approximation of Sherlock.

Sherlock chose _that_ moment to walk in the door. He paused and gave John a slow blink, which he returned since he’d seen several other cats greet each other that way while being friendly. Then Sherlock crossed to the mess on the floor, sniffed the air, snorted in apparent amusement, and walked across to where John lay. He yanked the pillow out from under his head (“Hey!”) and walked back to the pile to drop it on top. He scuffed a bit at the floor with his shoe and then walked back to where John was sitting.

“You’re in my spot. Move,” Sherlock stated.

“Mmm, nope,” John replied with a light laugh, “Why should I?”

“Because that’s _my_ couch. I marked it. Just like that flatulent tom marked the door you rubbed yourself all over.”

“You going to shit yourself if I don’t?” John teased.

“You’re going to make a _terrible_ felissapien,” Sherlock laughed, “That was a display of _dominance_.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Then why didn’t you respond by chasing him off or burying it to hide his scent?”

“I don’t have to go,” John shrugged, “And I don’t care if he keeps the doorjamb.”

Sherlock laughed again, “It isn’t about _keeping the doorjamb_. It’s about respect. It’s about you knowing where your territory is and where his is. It’s about who is dominant, about who _isn’t._ ”

“Riiiight,” John nodded, then stood up and walked over to Sherlock. He circled him, leaning in to sniff his face, a motion Sherlock returned. His eyes dilated with desire and John felt his cock twitch.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked, an amused look on his face.

“Greg. Yours?”

“Sherlock.”

“Pretty name…”

He paused for a moment, studying the feline, and then leaned in and rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shivered so John walked around behind him, watching his tail as it shifted into a friendly pose. He pressed both hands against his back and rubbed his cheek against his back and opposite shoulder. Sherlock began to purr and John watched as his tail twitched to one side to expose his (sadly clothed) bottom. Now he recognized the motion as ‘I’m sexually available’ and stepped in eagerly to slip his arms around Sherlock’s waist and press their torsos together.

“You beautiful thing,” John purred in his ear while Sherlock wrapped his hands around John’s wrists and hugged his arms back, “Can we go someplace?”

“My room should be empty. Last I saw my roommate was crying in the toilet.”

 _Gee, I wonder why_ , John thought, feeling sorry for the roommate.

John and Sherlock moved through the halls, giggling and flirting. They reached his room (on a different level) and John pressed Sherlock up against the inside of the door to snog him senseless.

“John,” Sherlock breathed the second he had air. John was working his way down the felissapien’s cheek and neck. Taking a card out of his fake persona’s deck he licked his neck as well, “Oh my gods!”

Sherlock’s legs went weak and he clutched at John, who dragged him against himself and rutted desperately.

“Mmm, Sherlock,” John moaned, catching the now eye-level ear and nibbled it.

“I need you. _Now!_ ” Sherlock gasped.

John dragged Sherlock to the bed, pressing him down in it and growling playfully as he tugged his clothes of. Sherlock found the zip on the back of his cat suit and tugged it down around his arms.

“You’re quite fetching as a cat,” Sherlock purred, tugging his arms free and then grasping his arse, “I can’t decide if I want to fuck you or have you fuck me.”

“Anything,” John growled, “Then I’m going to _kill you_ for taking off without me. Oh, and the cat thing might happen if we don’t get out of here soon.”

“Is that supposed to be a _warning_? I’ll love you either way,” Sherlock chuckled, and then moaned softly as John got his trousers and pants off and slid down to mouth at the nest of fur at the cusp of his thighs. Sherlock wriggled beneath him, whimpering and sounding frustrated.

“It’s fine, my love,” John growled, “Fuck my mouth, Sherlock. I can take it.”

“I don’t doubt that but…” Sherlock gasped, his cock starting to slide free. John lapped at it to encourage its emergence and Sherlock panted and gripped the pillow above his head. John noticed then that it was his lovey his head was resting against.

“Mmm, you thinking what I’m thinking?” John asked, crawling up his body and lapping at two of his six nipples along the way.

“The only thing my normally overzealous brain is thinking right now is ‘ejaculate, ejaculate, ejaculate...’” Sherlock panted.

John chuckled, “I’m thinking you, me, and a pillow with two holes.”

“I’m thinking you, me, and the lubricant under that pillow with two holes.”

John swallowed the anxiety at the sort of pain that would cause- to either hand or arse- and grabbed the lubricant.

“How shall we play this, lover?” John grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, “You want my hand or…?”

Sherlock growled and tackled him, twisting around until John was beneath him, he growled sensually, his tail flicking back and forth. John put up a fake purr, wriggling around until he was on his belly. He tugged the foam tail attached to his suit around to one side and arched his back to present his arse like a felissapien.

“If you’re trying to be sexy… it’s rather coming off as adorable,” Sherlock snickered.

“I’m short. Adorable has gotten me laid in the past, I have confidence that it will again.”

Sherlock growled, “ _Mine!_ No one touches you but me.”

“Yes,” John groaned as Sherlock tugged the rest of the cat suit off of him.

“I’m going to bury myself in you, John,” Sherlock growled, “I wasn’t sure if I could, but you’ve got me so excited…”

John moaned and arched his back, reaching behind him to spread his cheeks. A lubricated finger probed his entrance and John panted in excitement. It had been so long since the last time he’d had someone inside of him- though not so long since he’d last borrowed Sherlock’s dildo- that he could feel his entrance perking in longing.

“Look at you, gaping for me,” Sherlock purred, “I’m going to fill you up, John.”

“Yeah,” John groaned, pressing back onto the digit that slid into him.

Sherlock prepared him perfectly, stroking his prostate every few thrusts until he was moaning wantonly and begging to be filled. Then he lined himself up and pressed inside of John with a startled gasp.

“Oh my gods, John!” Sherlock cried out, clutching his hips and panting as he lay draped across him.

“That’s it,” John breathed, “On your own time. Finish fast or hold out. Doesn’t matter. Just take me however you want.”

“Stop talking,” Sherlock gasped, “I’ll come right now.”

John had a wicked longing to flex his muscles and make Sherlock blow his load that instant, but he pushed it off. That would just be cruel… especially since he had a feeling this was Sherlock’s first time being inside of someone without half an inch of plastic covering his member.

 _This is going to hurt. A lot. A_ hell _of a lot. No. Don’t think that. Just let him make love to you. Pain is irrelevant when you’re with someone you love._

John pressed his face into the lovey, breathing in Sherlock’s scent, and arched his back as he found an angle to suit him.

“Wh-what works best for humans? Long thrusts? Short?” Sherlock asked, sounding almost afraid.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me! Tell me how to do this, John. I’ve never _been_ with a man before.”

“Do what feels good. I’ll enjoy it because it’s you.”

Sherlock reached around John’s hips, pulling him up so he could grasp his cock and pump it back to life while making minute motions with his hips the way he would his toys. John moaned, not feeling any tug from the barbs at this point, and let himself relax into the sway of Sherlock’s hips and the stroke of his hand. Honestly, ‘skilled’ didn’t do Sherlock justice. His long fingers, their remarkable strength despite their thinness, and the way he played John’s body as if he were a violin… John was close to the edge in no time, and when Sherlock shifted on the bed and inadvertently hit his prostate he was hovering over the precipice.

“Th-there!” John gasped.

“Where?” Sherlock groaned.

“P-p-prostated!”

“Prostated?” Sherlock asked, “Oh! Prostate! Of course!”

Sherlock shifted his hips again and John cried out as sparks flew behind his eyes. Then Sherlock pulled almost all the way out and John braced himself for pain, thinking Sherlock had come already, only to shout in shocked pleasure when he thrust back in again at the perfect angle.

“Oh!” Sherlock gasped, “Oh, that’s _good!_ ”

Sherlock took up a punishing pace, thrusting to hit John’s prostate at random until he was babbling and swearing, threatening bodily harm if Sherlock didn’t bring him off _now_!

“I swear, Sherlock,” John gasped, “If you don’t fuck me properly I will pin you down and suck on _each_ of your nipples- without touching your dick- until I get milk from either them or your cock! Whichever comes first!”

Sherlock chuckled, but then moaned, “Enough flirting. I’m close again.”

“FUCK!” John shouted, as Sherlock changed his angle once again to brush against John’s prostate on each thrust.

Sherlock’s hand had never stopped working his cock, but now he added a lovely twist on the end and John sank down onto his forearms as his stomach clenched in anticipation. His fear was holding him off and he knew it, but there would be other times for them to come in sync. His movement meant that Sherlock had to shift to chase after his prostate, but that only spurred him on to lean over John’s body and sink his teeth into the soft flesh at the back of John’s neck. John cried out, feeling blood drawn on both neck and hips as Sherlock’s claws flashed out to hold his lover in place as instinct dictated he keep his mate from fleeing his barbed shaft.

Again the pain never came, not from Sherlock’s member, at least. Instead he felt a hot flood inside his body as Sherlock moaned and shivered out his climax.

“Yes! Fuck! Sherlock!” John gasped, still hovering on the edge of orgasm.

Sherlock shivered once more and John echoed it. Sherlock shifted and John told his body not to tense, but it failed to listen to him. His muscles grasped at Sherlock’s cock as the feline pulled out of him, hissing in expected pain… which again didn’t come.

“Now. In me.” Sherlock growled, wriggling beneath John’s body with that unnatural fluidity he had, and arching his back as his tail twitched to one side.

John grabbed the lube and slicked up his cock before pressing two fingers inside of Sherlock and scissoring them quickly.

“Nownownownownownownow!” Sherlock snarled.

“Yes,” John gasped, and pressed in slowly, moaning as Sherlock clenched around him. The cat hissed in pain, but pushed back and wriggled beautifully to encourage John to continue. Once he was inside of him he panted a moment, trying to contain himself, and then recalled that Sherlock was already fulfilled. This was about enjoying himself and finding completion inside the man he loved. He slid partway out and they both groaned as he sank back in.

“Not long,” John panted, “Can I go faster?”

“Yes, _please_!” Sherlock gasped, his tone sardonic, “Fuck me, John, take me!”

John slid free and thrust back in at a faster pace, avoiding Sherlock’s sensitive prostate as he let himself simply wallow in the pleasure of being wrapped up in Sherlock’s hot, slick body. He moaned and braced himself on both fists, plowing into Sherlock enthusiastically.

“Oh. Fuck. Yes!” John gasped, emphasizing his words with a thrust each.

John was hovering on the edge, his body tensing in anticipation, the coil of pleasure tightening as his body drew up and he embraced the explosion that wracked his body. John let himself groan as he thrust through his climax before stilling to just enjoy the waves of sensation.

“Oh gods, Sherlock. Sherlock,” John breathed, sliding slowly free and stretching out beside him. He felt truly tired for the first time in weeks, tired in a way that inspired sleep rather than anxious tossing and turning. However… he had to address one thing before he let himself go. Thankfully, Sherlock read him as he always did and answered his question before he had to speak it.

“You’re rather slow, John,” Sherlock laughed a bit, “The barbs are gone.”

“What?” John asked.

“You made mention of us staying too long and you being turned into a cat? Well, I’ve been here weeks. Guess what happened?”

“You had the surgery?” John twisted about and stared down at Sherlock’s dwindling member.

“Two weeks ago, yes. I best wash up. I’m not supposed to be having sex just yet.”

“Damn it, Sherlock! Why didn’t you say anything?” John snapped, scrambling to his feet.

“I thought the distinct lack of tearing would be obvious,” Sherlock replied with a snort as John bolted to get a flannel and wet it at the little sink beside the ridiculously tiny toilet, “No hot water in here, I’m afraid.”

“Deal with it. At least there’s soap. Are you mad? What if you get an infection?”

“Worth it,” Sherlock replied, and promptly went to sleep.

Or pretended to. John highly doubted that even Sherlock could sleep through having his cock washed with ice-cold water and soap so recently after surgery. John examined the member, stroking it to keep it outside his body. There was a ring of old and new scar tissue just below the head of his cock: old from his self-inflicted injury and new from the surgery. He washed it very carefully, making sure no waste, lubricant, or semen remained beneath the foreskin. His cock was still pointier than John’s at the tip, but otherwise it looked like a very red- and slightly scarred- version of his own. John released it and massaged his abdomen to encourage its retraction, watching lovingly as the now soft muscle slid back inside where Sherlock’s natural lubricants would keep it healthy and moist.

“You beautiful thing,” John breathed.

“Shut up and sleep,” Sherlock growled, “When you wake up we’re talking shop. Now come closer. I’ve missed your scent and someone washed the shirt I brought that had your smell on it.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Someone is erasing our memories,” Sherlock explained, “I’ve no idea how or why. Several have gone missing before out of therapy and then shown back up again with no idea they’d been gone. Some have been here for _years_ , John. Every time they ask to leave they’re told they _have_ left and that they kept coming back of their own volition. They’re shown video of themselves in the outside world- of events they don’t recall- and told that they’re mad and need to stay until they can be healed. Most times they’re only gone a few hours and don’t notice the difference, especially being kept in an underground facility where we control our hours, the lights, the meal times, and there are no clocks to judge time by.”

“My gods. I didn’t even notice. There _are_ no clocks!”

“I’ve been keeping careful track of time and have noticed gaps. For instance, a few days after surgery- once movement was possible- I examined the dressing around my penis and discovered I had progressed all the way to scar tissue. In three days! That was at _least_ six days worth of healing, John!”

“You’re missing three days,” John replied, a look of horror on his face.

“With no idea what happened to me, what I did, what I said, what I saw.”

“Cor, this is bad. What about this Henry Knight fellow?”

“He was in the military, like you. In fact, I’ve noticed that everyone here has some sort of background that makes them a potential weapon. Martial arts instructors, policemen (like your cover story) security guards, amateur conspiracy theorists with far too much time logged on the internet researching bombs, and _acrobats_.”

“Acrobats?” John asked, looking confused… then it hit him. “The Thai Circus! The Bird Cat!”

“Exactly!”

“But then what…” John paused, considered the facts and gave Sherlock a horrified look, “Sherlock… you said you had your surgery two weeks ago.”

“Yes, counting the time I lost.”

“You’ve only been gone two weeks, did they operate immediately?”

“No, after about a week and a half. I’m missing no time before it as far as… oh. Oh dear.”

John stared at Sherlock in horror as they both realized one very solid fact.

Finally it was John who voiced it: “I’m missing a week and a half.”

 

A/N: We're in the middle of storm Pax so I may be out of power for a bit again. I'll post if and when I have power/internet. Stay safe and warm!


	10. Chapter 10

“As near as I can tell,” Henry Knight explained, “I had my surgery years ago. I think I might have been one of the first. The difficulty is I don’t know where the lies end and the truth begins. I’m told that outside of here I’m rich and leading a good life; a perfect example of what they were trying to accomplish… but then every once and again I have a mental breakdown and they have to collect me. The difficulty is I don’t recall my life outside of here. I know it’s happening because I sometimes have a vague sense that I was happy until I woke up in this place again. That and the videos they’re showing me, one of which Sherlock here confirmed really exists outside this hell hole.”

“I have a few theories,” Sherlock told John, “But no way to test them. We’re watched too often.”

At the moment they were all curled up on a pile of mattresses and pillows on John’s floor. The conversation was taking place in soft whispers as John and Sherlock purred and wriggled happily while Knight petted them both, one with each hand. The petting really wasn’t doing it for John, if anything it was raising the hair on the back of his neck. Sherlock, however, was in his glory and it made John distinctly jealous.

“I really _will_ make a terrible felissapien, Sherlock. Can we _please_ get me out of here before they alter my _DNA_ and turn me into something I’m not?”

“That depends on you a bit,” Sherlock admitted, “Did you come prepared in any way?”

John snickered, “You have no idea.”

Sherlock smirked at him, leaning in to nuzzle him affectionately, “Tell me, you naughty thing. What did you shove up your bottom?”

“A broken down plastic gun.”

Sherlock had to duck his head into Knight’s stomach to disguise the laughter as he completely fell apart in a mess of giggles.  John snuggled against his side to hide his own wicked smirk. Then he lifted his head with a frown.

“That may be only a small asset.”

“Pun intended?” John snorted, “It didn’t _feel_ small.”

“No, you don’t understand. That gun was of my own construction. I never did work the kinks out. I believe you threw out the first model, so the one you have is at least functional… I think.”

“You think? What was wrong with the first one? It worked! You shot up the wall!”

“After a few practice shots the internal components melted and it locked up. The next time I made one I used a harder polymer and had each part shipped to me. I only put it together and fired it once.”

“Shit. So it might not work or we might only get a few shots off?”

“Basically.”

“What I want to know is what do they _want?”_

“No idea,” Sherlock replied, “I had a few theories, but everything’s been blown to hell.”

John recalled his e-mail then and told Sherlock about it.

“Cor, John! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?! Moriarty being behind this I had assumed at the first, but when he didn’t show himself after I was good and captured… It’s quite likely he meant to get you here as well.”

“Except I’ve already been here over a week.”

“Yes, with no memory as to what happened. It’s entirely likely you’ve been being tortured for information.”

“About what? The military? Everything would be out of date.”

“No, John, about your _current_ career.”

“If some genius criminal really wants to know who at St. Barts has piles I’m pretty sure he could find out without torturing me.”

“Your _proper_ current career!” Sherlock hissed, “With _me_.”

 _Narcissist_ , John thought, but it did make sense that Moriarty was after him.

“So why?”

“Why else? Because he’s bored and I’m the closest thing he has to a challenge. For all I know I’ve met him before- perhaps several times. As of now I’ve only beaten him once, but he knows I’m a threat… or an intriguing puzzle.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John and Sherlock made themselves out to be a newly smitten couple, hanging off of each other and using disgustingly cute nicknames for each other that made it hard not to laugh out loud. They were the gossip of the center; sticking together to the point they skipped therapy sessions when the times overlapped. The point was to keep track of each other. It didn’t work. A days after they were reunited Sherlock vanished for three days.

John asked around at first, pouting and sulking and wanting to know where his lover had gone. When he didn’t show after the first day he pretended disinterest, trying to keep up appearances and behave like a felissapien. On the third day he made a stink about it, pitching a fit to the counselors and demanding to know where Sherlock was. He announced he wanted to leave and find him, threatening to cancel his surgery. Finally one of the counselors pulled him aside.

“Listen, I shouldn’t be discussing this with you, but Sherlock’s checked out. He was healed up enough and he passed his final test just by having a sexual relationship with you,” The counselor gave him a pitying look, “If you ask me, dear, you were used.”

John let his face flash through a series of fake reactions, recalling past heartbreak to school his face into one of shock, shame, sadness, and anger.

“As if I felt anything for that little twink!” John snapped.

The next day Sherlock returned… from a second surgery. He was wheeled into group therapy in night clothes, his face pale and drawn with all manner of IV’s attached to him. One was morphine. John stared at him in horror, then decided their previous relationship was obvious enough that approaching him before group started wouldn’t be viewed as abnormal.

“Sherlock, what happened?” John asked, kneeling down in front of him.

Sherlock gave him a dazed look, “I appear to have been shot.”

“Shot?”

“Yes. Quite near my heart.”

“Cor,” John breathed, “Are you going to be okay?”

“I was told so,” Sherlock shrugged.

John nodded his understanding. Who knew what was true and what wasn’t?

“They told me you’d left,” John replied, letting a bit of fake accusation creep into his voice, “That you weren’t really into me to begin with.”

“How could you think that, dumpling?!” Sherlock exclaimed, holding his arms up and overacting shamelessly.

John sank down to his knees to press his head to Sherlock’s lap and rub his face across his thighs. It was such a relief to know Sherlock was safe (relatively) that he wasn’t even faking it. Clearly he wasn’t safer just because he wasn’t on the compound. Sherlock laughed at his behavior and stroked the back of his head.

“You’re getting makeup all over my pants.”

“Sorry,” John muttered, shamelessly nuzzling into his groin to breathe in his scent. No one would blink at a felissapien doing so, it wasn’t even considered inappropriate in public.

“My beautiful lover,” Sherlock purred, stroking his hair gently, “Hopefully next time we can leave together… and I won’t be shot. Or you.”

John laughed a bit and the counselor cleared his throat to get John into his seat. John ignored him for a count of twenty while the man sighed. It was only normal cat behavior, so everyone waited. Finally he slid into the seat beside Sherlock and held out his foam tail. Sherlock wrapped his real one around the fake one and John smiled fondly.

“I can’t wait till I can do this for _real_ ,” John said softly.

“Greg,” The counselor stated, drawing John’s attention with his alias, “Since you’re so eager to chat why don’t you start us off?”

“Yeah, sure,” John replied with a grin, “I’ve got my mate back, so I’m chuffed. Not thrilled he’s hurt.”

“Neither am I,” Sherlock frowned.

“How are you feeling about your tail, John. I know you weren’t very excited about the idea of having a tail last time we met up, but you’re sounding more interested now.”

John blushed. He’d buggered up one of their group therapy sessions by admitting that he tended to get annoyed by his foam tail. He’d only said it as an aside to another transfeline, but the counselor had heard it and made a big deal out of it. This time his comment had been planned, but he had rather hoped they’d leave him be after that. He didn’t _want_ to discuss altering his body, hated therapy in the first place, and just wanted them to move on.

Before John could open his mouth to fumble out a half-assed reply, Sherlock stepped up.

“Do you mind, muffin? I’d like to tell him about our discussion a bit ago.”

 _Muffin?! Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh._ John got his face under control and Sherlock smiled at the counselor.

“Oh, sure, no problem sugar lips.”

“John and I were discussing the breed he identifies as. It’s rather generic,” Sherlock stated.

“I had noticed,” The counselor nodded, “But I believe we were going to discuss that in _private_ sessions.”

“No need,” Sherlock stated and smiled tenderly at John, “John is a [manx](http://static2.vetknowledge.com/cdn/farfuture/8wYtOQG_7bnjl_1YEBTTRlk8C2oDI6uQKM-Li_W-OoI/mtime:1362463357/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/images/article/manx-cat_0.jpg).”

“A manx?” The counselor replied, perking up a bit.

“[A striped manx with a rumpy riser](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IboFNaY_kxc/T0cjl1UFSYI/AAAAAAAAGbM/8UXgc3WIQh4/s1600/manx.gif),” Sherlock laughed, “I can just see it on him, a bit of fluff like a coney tail!”

John smiled despite himself and Sherlock gave him an endearing grin. _I wish he’d look at me like that for real._

“I also see myself with more of a [whirl pattern than stripes](http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2382/2113442785_b5427a3b22_m.jpg),” John replied out of the blue. He was thinking of camouflage when he said it.

Sherlock looked interested, “That _would_ suit you. The manx personality fits as well; social, attached, wary of strangers, playful like a dog.”

“Oh, yeah, well I’ve got ‘fetch’ down to an art, haven’t I!” John laughed.

Sherlock joined in, but then winced in pain causing John to lean forward anxiously. There was no way in hell he was going to trust doctors he didn’t even know the name of. His doctor instincts were screaming at him to look at the wound himself. Sherlock took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly; his tight smile promising John that chance at a later date.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Anything?” John whispered as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt.

“Vague recollections. Mostly fear and pain.”

“Are you okay? Mentally, I mean?”

Sherlock snorted and John focused on the wound. It was a bullet hole, all right. Marks around it showed where the bullet had been dug out. It was stitched closed, so John couldn’t examine the internal damage, but the bruising around his chest and on his back told a long story.

“You died, Sherlock.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock blinked.

“You died. Someone had to resuscitate you. These marks are from paddles.”

“I don’t remember anything like that. The image I’m getting- a bit of a blur- is of a huge library that I can’t find my way out of. It almost feels more like a nightmare than reality.”

“We can’t keep this up,” John stated firmly, “Mycroft mentioned people died quite a bit in here. I’m thinking it’s _not_ from botched surgeries.”

“I could have told you that,” Sherlock snorted, “Why do you think he asked me to investigate this place?”

John paused at that new bit of information and Sherlock looked alarmed, “John, don’t you think that’s a bit extreme?”

“Stop reading my mind,” John growled, “It will make it that much harder to hide the body.”

“I’m not reading your mind, I’m deducing. While I’m not prone to bouts of brotherly affection I _would_ prefer him _alive_.”

“I’m not making any promises. Can he get us out?”

“Yes, but if I’ve been leaving here occasionally- doing gods only know what- he may not be aware that I need rescuing.”

“Fuck and double fuck. We’re screwed, Sherlock. Violently and repeatedly.”

“I think getting to the lowest level is our best option,” Sherlock stated, “We need to go on the offensive.”

“What’s down there?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“You’re too injured,” John replied.

“What will we do when you get shot, too?”

John paused, and went for a complete topic change: “I like the way you look at me when we’re acting.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly for a moment and then cocked one ear back, “Why?”

“Because you look like you love me.”

“I do. I’ve told you so. Pay attention.”

“Yeah, but you don’t often _look_ like you do.”

“Neither do you.”

“What?”

“John, felissapiens communicate differently. When you step out there you _open your eyes_. You look at me and you see more than my eyes and mouth. You see my ears and tail and the way I arch my back.”

“I saw those before, your emotions are plastered all over your ears.”

“Yes, but you didn’t always notice or understand. There were a lot of times I reached out to you and you missed it.”

“I had no idea,” John replied.

Sherlock shrugged, “I’m used to reading humans, humans aren’t used to reading felissapiens.”

“I’ll try to keep my head in the whole… catzone… outside of pretending to be transfeline.”

John noticed Sherlock’s ears twitch about, shifting to display anxiety. His face remained passive, as usually happened with felissapiens. To most he looked bored or annoyed, but John saw the switch this time.

“What? Something I said? A wrong term?”

“No.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed.

“I want you to get the surgery.”

“You… _what_?”

“I want you to turn yourself into a felissapien. We already know that they _are_ in fact completing the surgeries safely and accurately. I altered myself, now you do the same.”

John was shocked, but his mind was also racing about. The idea that it was fair didn’t cross his mind, but the looks Sherlock had given him, the way he’d been absolutely ravenous for him when he saw him dressed as a feline for the first time, the chance to be with Sherlock on a _whole_ new level, and the way he looked at John now with such _need_ in his eyes.

 _Not to mention that it could move this case forward_.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll do it.”


	11. Chapter 11

WARNING: SERIOUS ANGST AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS – Ratings are being raised, please see tags etc.

SEMI-SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3

Every step was terrifying. It was a steep climb downward into Dewer’s hollow and it wasn’t helping that he was shaking from head to toe. Fear. Anxiety. Agonizing loss. Guilt. Pain shot up his leg and his hands trembled as if from severe illness. Or weakness.

_Weakness. That’s it. None of this would be happening if I weren’t so weak. I thought so damn much of myself. Thought I was strong. Clever. Thought I could go on without him. I can’t. I should just topple over this ledge, hit the ground, and let the bomb go off… except some ridiculous part of me still wants to live. Just like in Afghanistan. Why? What the hell am I living for? What’s the point after I killed Sherlock?_

John staggered the last few steps and stood shakily in the misty hollow, staring around himself. It was cold and damp, but his shivering was from internal clamminess rather than external. His whole world had ended and he had no idea how or why. All he knew was that he remembered planning on chasing Sherlock to Baskerville and then… blankness. Suddenly he was back at home in Baker Street again, no packed bags and no trip to Baskerville accomplished, and everyone he spoke to had no idea where Sherlock was and asked him odd questions about himself. Mycroft undoubtedly knew, but when John questioned him he just stared at him blankly and blinked slowly as if that were an answer. Lestrade had kicked him out when he’d lost his temper and John had gone home in defeat and tried contacting Baskerville again, but something strange happened every time he did. He hung up the phone. He logged off the computer. He told the taxi that he’d changed his mind and went back upstairs to unpack his bag.

Then one day, without any reason or rhyme behind it, he’d climbed up to the top of an old abandoned warehouse, pulled out a rifle that was waiting for him in the shadows there, and put a bullet through the head of the woman from the Thai circus as she sat on a laptop in the building across from him. It had shaken him, of course. He’d killed before, but there had always been reason behind that; orders from above, a need to protect someone he loved, an enemy that _knew_ he was coming and was at least armed. However, he soon rationalized it away. It wasn’t important. That woman had been a danger to them all. _How_ he’d known where she was and how the gun had gotten there was unimportant. She was dead and Moriarty couldn’t use her to go after Sherlock anymore. Good riddance.

Then he’d woken up on the day he thought he’d been told was his return date for work after taking a few weeks off to go to Baskerville- and not going- and headed to work only to be told he’d been fired.

“You missed a week and a half of work, John,” Sarah snapped angrily, “No call, no show, no explanation. Even now! Look at you staring at me blankly!”

“I took two weeks off! It was approved!” John argued.

“John,” Sarah stated, her expression and voice softening, “That was over a month ago. No one’s even heard from you. I called the police. Your copper friend stopped by and was genuinely worried. I’m… look, I know things didn’t work out between us, but I don’t like what this looks like. Will you check into the rehab? I’ll be there for you as a friend, if that’s what you need.”

John fled. He simply turned and fled. He vaguely recalled that when Lestrade kicked him out he’d accused him of being on drugs as well. Told him off for ‘disappearing’ and told John not to come back until he and Sherlock were both clean. John had been so angry and frustrated at the time that he’d just cursed at the man and left. Now he called him up, hands shaking, and softly pleaded with him to help him.

“Something’s wrong with me,” John stammered, “I’m not on drugs, I swear I’m not. Sherlock’s missing and people are telling me that I’ve been missing. I don’t remember anything, Greg. I swear I don’t.”

“You remember coming to my flat and shaking Mycroft like a rag doll for no damn reason?” Lestrade asked angrily.

“Yes, and I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to him too, but I _need your help_.”

“Fine. Come to the Yard. We’ll make this official and start an investigation,” Lestrade said, his voice gentling in the wake of John’s panic.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure.”

Then he was in a room. A strange room that looked a bit like a military prison cell but had curtains over the barred window in the door. Sherlock was sitting in a wheelchair looking wide-eyed and pale. John was angry. Outraged. Seeing red. He screamed and shouted abuse at Sherlock, getting in his face and threatening him. When he screamed directly in the felissapien’s face the creature’s ears flattened and he lashed out with claws. John leaped out of the way and kicked out with one foot. It connected to Sherlock’s chest and the chair flew backwards into the door with the force of it. Sherlock toppled out of the chair with the force of the rebound and rolled onto his side, gasping like a fish out of water. Blood was spreading across his chest from a small focal point near his heart, like red ink spilled on a pale-blue piece of paper it welled up and soiled all it touched. Stained his Sherlock. Still John’s rage wasn’t satisfied. He picked up a chair to beat the man with. He felt as if he were standing outside his body watching as people came bursting into the room, dressed in scrubs, and tackled him to the floor. Sherlock was being examined when they stuck a needle in John’s arm and the world turned hazy.

“Sherlock?” John asked the doctor standing over his bed.

“Dead, I’m afraid,” The doctor replied, “There will be an investigation, of course. In the mean time you’re a prisoner here while we try to figure out what suddenly caused you to snap and kill your lover, _John Watson._ ”

The voice said his name like an accusation, but John’s mind was spiraling around too much information while pounding in agony.

“Lover?” John asked. He and Sherlock were boyfriends, certainly, but he wouldn’t call them lovers. Their relationship was too platonic for that, usually consisting of snuggling, kissing, and the occasional wank session. More like friends with benefits who happened to not date other people. Then the doctor’s first sentence registered, “Dead?! What do you mean dead?!”

“You killed him,” The man stated as though surprised John questioned it, “You kicked him in the chest, directly over his bullet wound.”

“Kicked him… bullet wound… _what_ bullet wound? Who shot him?!”

“That we have no idea of. He left Baskerville for a time for a family therapy session and came back with a bullet wound. He refused to tell us what had caused it. We believe it to have been domestic violence, perhaps his parents were offended that he’d altered his body.”

“No. Just. No. He can’t be… I _love_ him. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening!”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Where am I, even?”

The man looked annoyed, “Baskerville, of course. If you’re gearing up for an insanity plea I suggest you try harder.”

Then he’d just walked out, leaving John to fall apart in peace. Finally he became so loud in his distraught mourning that they came in and tranquilized him.

Then he was back in Baker Street. He just opened his eyes and woke up with what felt like a hangover, back in _Baker Street_. John scrambled out of bed and into the bathroom. He pissed in a cup rather than the toilet and fumbled with the first aid kit; Baker Street’s first aid kit was more like a field kit, John’s idea since Sherlock rarely wanted to go to hospital after an injury. As such it had all manner of medical devices in it. John drew out a syringe, tied off his arm with his teeth, and drew as much blood as it could hold. He took off the needle and bagged the whole syringe since he didn’t have any test tubes handy. Then he grabbed his phone to call Lestrade.

An automated voice came on telling him his service was cut. For a moment John panicked, thinking he was about to be assaulted in his own home with no way to call for help, but then he realized his phone plan had been canceled due to lack of payment.

_How long has it been?!_

John staggered downstairs, barely registering that he was wearing a _cat_ suit, of all things, and into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. She screamed at the sight of him, rushing forward once she recognized him to hug him tightly.

“John! Oh my goodness, I barely recognized you! You look a fright! Where have you been? Where’s Sherlock?”

“Dead,” John croaked, “Dead. I killed him. Oh fuck, I killed him.”

John sank to the floor while Mrs. Hudson dissolved into tears, sobbing out denials. He fumbled in her purse and drew out her phone, dialing Lestrade himself.

“John?! Where the _hell_ have you been?!” Lestrade snapped, “I’ve been looking high and low for…”

“Sherlock’s dead,” John sobbed, “He’s dead. I killed him. In some… prison somewhere. I took samples of my blood and urine so you can check it for drugs. Arrest me. Lock me up. I’m not safe. Please hurry. Mrs. Hudson is here and I don’t want to hurt her, too.”

John hung up the phone and Mrs. Hudson fled from him, here eyes strained with betrayal and sorrow, and locked herself in her bedroom. John sat on the floor and rocked himself back and forth while he cried and waited for the police to arrive. It was only a few minutes before the sound of sirens and even a damn helicopter propeller reached his ears. They burst through the still open door, shoved him onto his side, cuffed his unresisting arms, and dragged him off while reading him his rights. He never said a word. Neither did Lestrade- he just stood there looking lost and hurt.

John spent a night in prison and then was moved to a psychiatric ward. There he told his wandering tale, but every time he tried to mention Baskerville he was only able to use other words for it. Test site. Facility. Prison. Ward. Hospital. Nothing came out right. They medicated him, ignoring his plea that they test the blood and urine at his flat. When they took their own samples nothing turned up, as John had feared. It had probably degraded. For all he knew even the samples he had in his flat had nothing to show for it.

_At least no one is in danger of being killed by me while I’m here._

Then he went to sleep in the psych ward, expecting a court day the next morning, and woke up in a fancy house with a strange man standing beside him holding a gun and looking confused.

“Who are you?” The man demanded.

“John. John Watson,” John replied, sitting up while his head spun miserably, “How did I get here?”

“No idea. You were lying on my sitting room rug when I came down for breakfast. Wait… You’re John Watson!” The man stated eagerly, “I follow your blog. Is Sherlock here? Is he going to help me?”

“Sherlock’s dead,” John answered automatically, his chest clenching in pain, “Who are you?”

“Henry Knight. I tried to contact you. I’m… someone is controlling me. Making me do things. I keep having these blank spells and-”

John started to laugh. He wasn’t sure why, but he started to laugh hysterically while lying on the surprisingly plush rug of a man who stared down at him in horror while holding a damn gun in his hand. He rolled onto his side and struggled up onto hands and knees. He was laughing so hard there was drool coming out of his mouth and dripping onto the rug.

_I should stop drooling. That looks expensive._

Then he was sobbing, sobbing and shaking and he toppled back onto his side with his back to Knight and wailed out his misery. Knight babbled something about calling the police, and then thought better of it and asked John if the same thing was happening to him.

“Yeah,” John choked out, straightening out and trying to get himself under control, “Can I get a tissue or…?”

“Sure,” The man replied, turning his back rather calmly for someone who had just found a stranger having fits on his den floor. He fetched some tissues off a table and handed them to John who cleaned up his face as best he could and staggered to his feet.

“I feel like a truck hit me.”

“I’ll bet. I always wake up feeling hung over, but when I got a mate to test my piss there was nothing in it.”

“Figures,” John muttered, “Speaking of the loo…?”

“Down the hall,” Knight advised.

John headed down the hall to relieve himself, grabbing a plastic cup off the counter and downing three small glasses of water in a row. When he came back out Knight was shaking with anger, his face flushed, and the gun pointing at John with a definite purpose this time.

“The vest,” He growled, “Put it on. Now.”

“Knight, just hang on a second…” John tried, inching forward with the intention of disarming him.

“Fuck no! No you don’t! Not again! I know what you did to Sherlock, you piece of shit! You think I’ll let you off me, too?”

John sank to his knees and picked up the vest, noting the plastic explosives taped to it, and slowly slid it onto his person. Knight directed him to lash it on and watched carefully as he did so.

“We were just talking a minute ago. Do you remember? We weren’t hostile then.”

“No, I don’t fucking remember!” The man shouted, “It’s Baskerville! They fuck with me. Over and over and over again. But I remember what you did to Sherlock. I remember that. He was so damn scared… You were supposed to be his _mate_.”

The way he said mate didn’t sound like ‘friend’, it sounded like ‘husband’. John’s eyes softened and tears welled up again, but they were of a different sort.

“You remember being in Baskerville now? Earlier you didn’t. When we were in Baskerville… and it was all three of us, wasn’t it?” John asked, and Knight nodded, “Sherlock and I were lovers?”

“Yeah, thick as thieves. I watched you two snuggle up and nuzzle noses like cats. I petted you both. You were dressed like a cat then. You were… so in love. How could you do that to him? _How_? He trusted you, I could see it in his eyes. I think you were the only one he trusted.”

John shut his eyes, letting the tears fall. He’d had Sherlock. They’d made love. He was sure of it now, despite not recalling it. He’d held him and loved him and been loved back. He just couldn’t remember. And then he’d killed the man he loved, the only person to give him a sense of completion.

“Shoot me. Just… do it.”

“No. I’ve made a deal. I get to keep my memories… all of them… if I cooperate with Baskerville both in and out of the facility. I have to do as I’m told or they’ll keep destroying my life,” Knight’s voice cracked like a teenager’s.

“So you’re a slave now? Is that the next step? First you’re a puppet- their assassin, I’m guessing- then you’re a slave?”

“Shut up! JUST SHUT UP!”

John was done fastening himself into the harness to Knight’s satisfaction, and was directed to stand up and march out into the hallway and to the door.

“You do realize that you are already missing memories?” John pointed out, “They aren’t keeping their promise.”

“I haven’t kept my half yet. I will. Then I’ll be okay again. Finally.”

“How do you know you _haven’t_ kept your half of the bargain and they just erased it from your head?”

“Shut up!” The man screamed, starting to shake violently, “Get in the car! Now!”

John tried for the passenger seat, but he was shooed to the driver’s side. He slipped inside and stared at the inside of the car.

“This… this car is familiar.”

“Of course it is. You _drove_ it here.”

“I did?”

“Yes, last night. Right before breaking into my _home_.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I figured you didn’t. Just drive.”

“Where are we going?”

“Dewer’s hollow.”


	12. Chapter 12

John stood in the misty valley and stared around himself. He couldn’t see Knight but he knew he was there, the telltale dance of a red dot on his chest assured him of that. Sherlock would probably be able to look at him and know exactly where he’d learn to shoot and how accurate he was. John could just hear his lover’s voice in his head.

_Judging by the fact his home is a few miles from someplace like this-_

_You mean creepy as fucking hell, Sherlock?_

_Honestly, John, a place can’t be ‘creepy’. Creepiness is a perceived state based on personal assumptions, overactive imagination, and scriptwriter’s ridiculous notions that all evil places look dark and foggy. Based on that assumption every street in London would have a murder nearly every night- or have you forgotten how many sunny beaches we found bloated corpses on?_

_Right. So, you were saying?_

_Before you interrupted me with your naïveté? I was saying that his childhood home being a few miles from a wooded copse full of old legends likely means he was taught to shoot by locals. Likely his best friend’s father since his own was rich and the décor implies he disdained local atmosphere…_

John smiled to himself despite the miserable situation. A whisper in the bud in his ear started up.

“Just because the dot is gone doesn’t mean you can relax, Johnny boy,” An Irish voice lilted, “That jacket covering the bomb still? Good boy. Very good. Such a good kitty… You’re about to get a surprise. We _both_ are. Keep your face straight. No shocked looks or… _boom, boom_.”

John kept his face straight as he walked a few steps further and turned to face the sloped entrance to the hollow. Someone was coming down it, moving stealthily and keeping to the long shadows despite the full moon shining almost directly above them. Whoever it was had to be a felissapien- no human moved as gracefully as that. He didn’t trip on a single root or skid on the sliding shale that John had nearly toppled down. That was how John knew before he laid eyes on him, and was already blinking back tears, because only _he_ moved like that.

The voice in his ear spoke just as Sherlock’s face came into view, those big eyes pained when he realized who- or what- he was facing.

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?” John repeated in a neutral tone.

“John… listen to me,” Sherlock stated, holding one hand out pleadingly, “You’re being brainwashed. We all are. There are drugs in the food, and not just _in_ Baskerville. They split them up: three different types of drugs. Depending on which we’re on, two of them effect which memories we can access, effectively making us live two separate lives, with a third drug that causes a temporary psychotic break to force us to kill via instructions given during one of the phases.”

 _I know_ , John thought, but he had been told to be silent so he remained it.

“Oh,” Sherlock stated, “You know. I see it in your eyes… and you’re rational right now.”

“Oh, he’s good! Go ahead, Johnny,” The voice in his ear chuckled, “You can talk.”

“They told me you were dead,” John choked, “That I killed you.”

“You very nearly did,” Sherlock admitted, “I forgive you.”

“Thanks,” John laughed through the tears that tried to fall. He wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t let them both die with Sherlock seeing him cry for the first time.

“Do you remember Baskerville or Baker Street?”

“Baker Street.”

“They’re crossing our realities. I remember Baskerville. We’ve never been in the same area but on separate drugs before.”

“We have. I remember attacking you in Baskerville and talking to a doctor afterwards, apparently while still in Baskerville.”

“You were drugged at the time. A combination of the Baskerville psychotropics and the rage inducing drugs. The combo allowed you to remember part of the confrontation. It has to do with the way our brains store memories.”

“Now what?”

“I followed mentions on your blog to Henry Knight and broke into his house last night only to be caught and tied to a damn chair all night…”

John laughed, “We almost met up on our own. I was there too. I’m pretty sure at the same time. Knight told me I broke in and he was already armed and aggressive.”

“You might have done, but it also might have been a lie. We have no idea to what extent they’ve been distorting our thought patterns. What is your mission this time?”

John opened his mouth to answer that he was wired to explode when a footstep behind Sherlock had him whirling around and John braced himself for the inevitable.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, knowing the voice would carry, “Sherlock, I was so damn lost without you. I wanted to die. I love you. I don’t know what we were to each other in Baskerville, but… I know what I want us to be. If we survive this… I’m marrying you. And I don’t care if I stay celibate for the rest of my damn life because of it, either.”

Sherlock wanted to turn. John could see that in the twitch of his tail, in the way his ears rolled back towards John to focus on his voice, in the way his hand reached back as if to take his. John felt a ghost across his palm, as if their fingers had once been entwined for so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like for them to be apart. Then a whiplash thin man with slicked back hair and manic eyes stepped into the moonlight. No. Not a man. A felissapien. He was a [silver spotted ocicat](http://www.catsofaustralia.com/images/ocicatphoto3%20.jpg), with eyes so big that John wished there was more light so he could see their color. They looked depthless. They looked frightening. John shivered in anticipation and Sherlock’s tail fluffed out, lashing back and forth. John saw him step a bit in between them, a protective stance, and he felt one part annoyed and another part flattered.

“Jim Moriarty. _Hi_ ,” The cat sing-songed with his Irish lilt.

“Pleasure,” Sherlock replied, his deep voice an octave lower than usual. If the other cat wasn’t afraid of him he’d be turned on for sure.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Sherlock. It’s just supposed to be me, Johnny, and Doctor Frankland,” Moriarty chuckled, “I owe Doctor Frankland a fall for interfering with Knight.”

“I’m pernicious like that.”

“How _did_ you find us out, hm?”

“I have my ways.”

“Oh, I _know_ you do, but does John?”

Sherlock’s posture shifted again, but this time it was a note of worry as he glanced back at John.

“Sherlock?” John asked.

“Oh, Janine!” Moriarty called over his shoulder, “Don’t look so shocked, Sherly. Did you really think you’d got the drop on me when you showed up here?”

Sherlock stepped backwards to get closer to John, but Moriarty shook his head.

“Uh, uh, uh, Sherlock. Not so close. Johnny’s going to positively _explode_ with jealousy in a moment. You don’t want to be in the blast radius.”

John was so busy focusing on the fact he’d used the word ‘explode’ that he was completely at a loss when Dr. Janine Akram* staggered into the hollow. She was bleeding profusely from a wound to her head, her fingernails had been ripped off, and she stank of sweat and fear. She gave the hollow a terrified look and the staggered for Sherlock.

“Please! My love! Save me! He’ll kill me! He knows _everything!_ ”

Sherlock put his arms out instinctively to catch her and John sucked in his breath as pain vibrated through his chest. _My love. She called him her love. But he’s_ my _love!_

John looked away in agony, but Sherlock had tossed her down onto the ground and hissed at her. John looked up again; one part hopeful and another worried about the clearly abused woman.

“Sherlock, maybe you should get her out of here,” John decided. _I need you to live. Take her and go. Be happy._

“Not happening.”

“Sherlock, there’s a _bomb_ strapped to me!” John shouted angrily, “And a sniper in the woods! Make a deal with Moriarty and _get out of here_. Go be happy with her.”

“I’m aware of the situation. No. I choose you. I will _always_ choose you. To be happy _or_ miserable with. I highly doubt I’ve chosen this… _woman_ … in the first place.”

“You _bastard_!” Janine sobbed, “After everything I’ve risked for you, you choose _him?!_ ”

Janine staggered to her feet and threw herself at John in a fit of rage, screaming like a banshee until it echoed through the hollow. Sherlock hissed in pain, his ears going back and his feet staggering at the onslaught of sound to his sensitive appendages. John put up his arms to ward off the attacking woman, shouting that he had a bomb strapped to him and not to be a fool. She grabbed onto his jacket and a shot rang out in the woods. Blood sprayed John’s face and Janine fell to the ground, her sightless eyes shining in the full moon that graced the gruesome scene with its presence. John stared down at her in horror, then looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes. Carefully, so neither man would see, he slipped the bottle she had thrust into his hand into his coat pocket.

“John,” Sherlock started, “I swear I don’t remember any…”

“No! No! No! NO!” Moriarty shouted, “You weren’t supposed to chose him! Damn you, Sherlock Holmes! I thought you were _special!_ I though you were like _me!_ But you’re not, are you? You’re on the side of the _humans_.”

Moriarty sounded so dismissive and disgusted, that John knew that Sherlock couldn’t ignore it. Sure enough he spun sharply on one heel, his ears perked aggressively back and his tail lashing angrily.

“Just because I am on the side of the humans, don’t mistake for one moment that I am _one of them!”_

Moriarty stepped forward; his eyes were narrowed and he got right up in Sherlock’s face. To John’s shock the feline didn’t react. He simply stood stock-still and let the man study his face with only his swishing tail to show that the confrontation was uncomfortable for him. Then Moriarty stepped back with a shocked look on his face.

“Oh, oh you _aren’t_. You’ve not had a chance to show your true self to me yet, Sherlock. I’m going to give you. One. More. Chance,” Moriarty stepped away with a mad grin on his face and turned towards the exit to the hollow, then paused and looked back over his shoulder, “But don’t disappoint me or I will _ssssskin_ you and turn you into _shoes_.”

They waited until the man was out of the hollow and the red dot teasing John’s chest had vanished, before they heaved a sigh of relief. John staggered backwards, his breathing erratic, and Sherlock turned and dropped to his knees to undo the fastenings on the bomb.

“Alright?” Sherlock demanded to know, “ _Are you all right?!”_

“Wait! Sherlock just a second…” John shouted at him to slow down, but the man was insistent. He barely got the bottle out of his coat pocket before Sherlock had it off and tossed both coat and bomb away from them.

Sherlock was still down on his knees still, staring up at John while trying to deduce his mood. John had fumbled the bottle but was afraid of people still watching so he wasn’t turning his head as he looked for it. Sherlock was distracted by his purpose, apparently not ashamed to beg John for forgiveness. Any doubt as to his feline beloved’s affection for him vanished.

“I have no idea who she was, John. I had a note from myself that she was helping us from inside Baskerville. That’s it.”

“It’s fine,” John replied, “I believe you, just…”

Sherlock’s busy fingers weren’t done; he was tugging John’s flies open. John had caught sight of the bottle but had no chance to pick it up.

“What are you doing?” John asked right before his libido told him to shut the fuck up.

“I _have_ to have you, John. Now.”

“We can’t have sex, Sherlock, there’s a body over there.”

“I assure you she won’t object,” Sherlock growled, and pressed his face into John’s open trousers to nuzzle against his groin and breathe in his scent.

John’s legs went out from under him. It was all too much. His brain was pumping out fight or flight while his cock was filling with the blood he needed to use to _think_. Sherlock pressed him down into the cool, damp ground and tugged his trousers and pants down to his knees before climbing up his body and devouring his mouth. John moaned into the kiss, then grunted in pain when he nicked his tongue on one of Sherlock’s sharp teeth. Sherlock moaned and sucked on his tongue as if needing his blood to survive.

John tugged back, “Vampire cat! If you want to suck something…”

Sherlock growled, wrenched his wrists from John’s hands, shoving them away ( _the bottle!)_ and dove for his groin, swallowing his cock down with a greedy moan. John gasped, eyes rolling in his head and one hand buried in Sherlock’s lush curls while the other gripped the bottle tightly. Sherlock bobbed for a moment and then finally popped off at John’s insistent tugging.

“ _What_?” Sherlock demanded angrily, as if he were the one with the damp, unsatisfied hard-on.

“You too,” John babbled.

“What?” Sherlock asked, with less frustration.

“You too. I want to suck you off, too.”

Sherlock let out a growl of approval and stripped his trousers and pants off in one fluid motion. John used his moment of distraction- and really, anyone watching would be watching _that_ \- to shove the bottle into the crotch of his pants. Sherlock straddled John’s head and set back to bobbing on his cock with a pace that would end this fast and hard- exactly what John needed. John had to grab his hips and shift him about since their height difference was significant, but he was finally able to get Sherlock’s thickly haired bollocks to his mouth and set about teasing them with his tongue while stroking his hand along Sherlock’s smooth, hard cock.

_Wait… smooth?_

Sherlock shifted about and John was able to get his cock in his mouth. Sure enough, Sherlock’s member felt like any other bloke’s in his mouth, if a bit more pointed at the tip, and he sucked it hungrily, moaning around it as Sherlock thrust his hips down to fuck his throat.

 _I’m dreaming. Best fucking dream ever. He smells so good!_ John thought when he managed a breath. It was good this wouldn’t last long because he was perfectly willing to sacrifice air for the chance to feel that hard member swelling as he gagged around it.

Sherlock was reveling in scent as well, all but drowning in John’s heady aroma with his nose so close to his groin. He could smell the fear, the anger, the hurt, but he could also smell affection and an overwhelming scent of desire. John _needed_ him; much in the way Sherlock needed John. Perhaps not _quite_ the same way, but it was enough that they were so utterly mad for each other. Anything else- even this madness at Baskerville- could be overcome.

John moaned as Sherlock’s bitter come filled his mouth, struggling to swallow it down as the man’s hips twitched and shifted. Finally he lifted off a bit and John was left panting and gently stroking his hips as he continued to suckle him. Sherlock moaned around his cock and John gasped.

“Do that again!”

Sherlock _purred_. He started purring like a motor and John’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as Sherlock’s throat- which his cock was shoved into almost mercilessly- began to vibrate in ways that batteries could only hope to accomplish.

“Oh! Fuck! Sher! Lock! Holmes! You! Bast! AH!”

John came hard, Sherlock’s swallows drawing pleasured cries from him as his cock twitched in his throat. John lay back feeling drained of more than his semen and very nearly fell asleep where he lay. Then someone cleared their throat, and judging by the fact Sherlock was currently lapping at his pubic hairs in a lazy attempt at cleaning him up…

“Sherlock, we’re not alone,” John stated, his tone less concerned than it should have been.

“We never have been,” Sherlock supplied.

“Up and at em, boys,” Moriarty’s voice reached them, “Your carriage has arrived.”

John shoved the contented cat aside and sat up to see Moriarty, Knight, and an unknown man with curls like Sherlock’s standing at the slope out of the hollows. Knight had two straight jackets in his hands and was giving them a doleful look. There were no guns visible, but John wasn’t fool enough to think they weren’t there. This was a man who took no chances and who had no fear of being blown up by his own damn bomb.

Sherlock, however, was less than impressed. He stood up, pulled that plastic gun he’d designed out of his pocket, and pointed it at the bomb which ( _Oh! Yes!)_ now lay at Moriarty’s feet.

“Thanks, but I’ll call a cab,” Sherlock replied, and pulled the trigger. A dull click filled the air. Moriarty raised an eyebrow and smothered a giggle. John sighed in disappointment. Sherlock scowled at the gun in frustration, “Damn. I should have recalibrated the…”

“ _If_ you’re quite through,” Moriarty sighed, and gestured to the jackets in Knight’s hands.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Knight said softly, “I thought he’d killed you.”

Sherlock snatched the straight jacket from him with a haughty glare and strode to the stranger to fasten him in. Knight fastened in John and they were marched through the woods at gunpoint. It wasn’t until they reached the vehicles and John saw _two_ idling army jeeps that he realized they were going to be separate again. Sherlock realized it at the same time and they fought free of their captors, John slamming his head backwards into Knight’s nose while Sherlock spun on one foot and knocked the stranger out with a single kick. Guns went off and Sherlock and John bolted into the moor, heading for a gated area not far from them. John hoped for a farm but Sherlock stopped running and shouted at him to stop as well. John skidded to a stop and saw the sign then.

_A fucking mine field?!_

The bottle in his trousers pinched his balls and he saw stars, but there was no time to adjust it. Their captors were behind them so they turned back to the woods, Sherlock’s spry figure moving in front of John’s eyes, head low and body flowing like an ice skater, as they weaved through copse and bush, ducking low and skidding beneath areas their captors would have to struggle to follow.

_He’s using my short height and stamina to our advantage, but… he’s holding himself back. He could elude them if I weren’t here._

“Sherlock!” John gasped, “Don’t wait for me! Faster!”

“Not! Happening!”

A shot rang out and Sherlock toppled, his body hitting the ground, bouncing and rolling several times over. John was helpless to avoid him and tripped over him despite his attempt to jump. He hit the ground hard, landing on his shoulder and face with no way to brace himself. For a moment he was winded, then he turned and struggled back towards Sherlock like a caterpillar.

“Sherlock! Oh god, no! Please!” John gasped.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered. John’s doctor’s mind rushed ahead of his emotions. He didn’t see blood and Sherlock wasn’t breathing rapidly like someone in pain. He leaned down and pressed his tongue to the cat’s pulse point. He found it steady but slow.

_Drugged?_

Another shot went off and John felt a needle plunge into the meat of his arse before toppling to the side as a very powerful drug raged towards his racing heart, flooded his brain, and left him with sweet oblivion.


	13. Chapter 13

Therapy was _boring_.  Baskerville was _boring_. Even the fact he’d missed a few days worth of memories was _boring_. Then John showed up. John was _not_ boring. John was home and comfort and food and safety. John was touch and caress and sleep and desire. John was an anchor in a raging storm as his mind tossed him about like a tiny fishing boat with no land in sight. John was his focus.

And John was a decidedly fantastic shag.

He was also finally _his_. The surgery being done was a perk, of course. He hadn’t cared to alter his body, but having done it he now had no doubts whatsoever. Not with John filling his body. Not with himself being able to _thrust_ into him hot and hard. Not with the feel of pleasure being separated from guilt at having caused pain or shame from being born _different_. Well. He’d never cared overmuch for being different and only John’s pain bothered him, but this was less complicated.

Then he’d woken up with a bullet wound and all hell had broken loose. The fur was flying, and not necessarily symbolically. John was terrified by his injury, that much was sure. Sherlock had received a small note via Janine, his only contact with Mycroft. She had to be careful what she brought in or took out, but she’d gotten that in for him. It had one name on it, that of an M6 agent: _Morstan_. Morstan was a crack shot. She could shoot a coin tossed in the air without looking at it. So why hadn’t she killed him if she’d been commissioned to? Was she with Moriarty? Or had he become a threat she had been forced to take out, but had refused to take the kill shot due to his connection with Mycroft? Sherlock feared he wouldn’t find out without leaving Baskerville, but in the mean time he had a worried lover to attend to and some healing to do. They couldn’t afford to muck about.

They were still trapped. He was still hurt. They were still fundamentally unaware of most of their surroundings. This time, however, he had a plan. He’d reached an agreement with a therapist… well; by ‘reached an agreement’ he meant he’d gotten her to fall for him. She was quite the kinky thing, but he was holding out on her by claiming he couldn’t bear to be sexually active with her while he and his mate were being held captive- he needed freedom. She couldn’t get them free, but she was in his pocket. Janine was frantic to have his heart and body… and John’s… and several other cats, if she were honest. She had made contact with Mycroft once before for him and would do so again.

 _Cat ladies. Honestly_.

“John,” Sherlock nudged him gently.

He woke with a stretch… and a lovely bit of morning wood that Sherlock was only too willing to wrap his paws around. He was in a good deal of pain, but the morphine was holding it off and the sight of John stretching and moaning was utterly brilliant. So he stroked the sleepy man until he came with a grunt and a contented sigh, reveling in the feel of hot steel wrapped in satin skin.

“Mmm, s’nice.”

“When I want to be,” Sherlock smirked.

“You want a hand, handsome?” John flirted, nodding down to his own semi-erection.

Sherlock nodded, but John’s best efforts only made him sleepy so he eventually called him off, “Morphine is throwing me off.”

“It’s still nice to touch you,” John smiled, “I love the fact I can without hurting myself or you feeling bad about it.”

“Hm, it is enjoyable, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock,” John rolled over and petted his hip gently, “I’m thinking about yesterday. I’m a bit… I mean… I’m less certain after having slept on it.”

“About changing your DNA? I’d think less of you if you weren’t having second thoughts… you so rarely utilize your _first_ thoughts.”

“Okay. That’s… good.”

“I suppose this is the part where we talk this through as if we’re in group therapy,” Sherlock sighed in disgust.

“Or you could just answer one question for me,” John replied caustically.

“That seems more direct. What question?” Sherlock conceded.

“Am I attractive to you without my cat suit and make-up on? As a human?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied with a snort, “You resembling and smelling like my own species is only a perk. Like you dying your hair to get rid of the grey.”

John sat up with a scowl on his face and Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I mean for _human_ females,” Sherlock scoffed, “Grey hair is no more or less attractive to me than blonde or any other color.”

“Okay. All right. So what makes me being felissapien more attractive?”

“What makes me having ears and a tail more attractive?” Sherlock accused, fully aware of the kink factor.

“It doesn’t,” John shrugged, “If you were human I wouldn’t find you more or less attractive. It’s your personality I love.”

Sherlock laughed, “ _No one_ loves my personality!”

“I do,” John insisted, his tone brooking no argument.

Sherlock stared at his lover, who was so much easier to read than most humans were, and saw the honesty behind those words. He had to respond in kind, and he had to make it obvious. His inability to communicate on a human level had held them off _far_ too long. He couldn’t move as easily as he liked, or he’d demonstrate his affection by climbing on top of him and snuggling in to show him his love. However, he had a very fresh wound in his chest and just tossing John off had been exhausting. He had to find another way. The words ‘I love you’ were so hollow when he spoke them. He didn’t moderate his tone of voice the way humans did. He could pull it off when acting, but he didn’t want his relationship to _be_ an act. John, however, seemed to need that overzealous emotional outpour to feel secure.

“When we’re acting in front of the counselors I’m showing you how I feel on my face,” Sherlock explained, going for a middle ground between acting and being himself.

John’s face scrunched up and Sherlock waited while the thoughts ticked by in his head. He was halfway asleep again when John’s placid mind finally shimmered into understanding.

“So… you feel that way inside already, but you don’t express it the way I do?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m missing your communication?”

“No, you’re seeing it, but it doesn’t _mean_ as much to you as when I behave like a human. What you need to recall is that I’m doing _that_ for our entirely _human_ counselors’ benefit, not yours.”

“So it’s _my_ fault.”

Sherlock didn’t answer since he hadn’t lifted his tone at the end of his sentence, but John got that frustrated look he often got when he thought Sherlock was ignoring him.

“Yes. It is. You are asking me to behave human when I am not a human. You have to learn how to accept my affection as a felissapien, not a human.”

“How will my becoming a felissapien help that?”

“It probably won’t,” Sherlock admitted, “But I still want you to.”

“Why?”

“So I can wrap my tail around yours.”

“What?”

“And groom you.”

“Okay…”

“And pet you.”

“So you want to interact with me like a felissapien, but you won’t interact with me like a human?” John asked, his eyebrows furrowed. Eyebrows were like cat ears, Sherlock had noticed.

“I _do_ interact with you like a human. Often. The times when you see my face change and my voice alter I am doing it _intentionally_. The problem is that it is dishonest because it isn’t how I show affection. If you had felissapien parts, wants, and needs then I could show you felissapien affection more easily. I could scratch behind your ears. I could invite you to go hunting with me.”

“Then… this is to advance our relationship.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think we could do it without the surgery?”

“Not really. You’re unfortunately quite slow.”

“Thanks,” John scoffed.

“It’s not your fault we’re the superior species,” Sherlock sighed, “It’s just a shame intelligence isn’t expanded during the alteration.”

“Yeah, it must be so awful for you to put up with such an idiot for a lover.”

“Well, you have your good points,” Sherlock smirked.

John leaned over and gave him a kiss with a fond smile, “Let’s get breakfast.”

John’s entire demeanor radiated comforted. He was still unsure about the surgery, sure, but that was entirely understandable. The fact was that they might not have much of a chance to avoid it. John’s surgery had been put off because of his inability to open up during private therapy, but his doctors would only wait so long. From what Sherlock knew, the doctors were all in on the plot, but they were also interacting with their patients on a regular basis and often formed attachments. As such, they often had their best interest at heart despite essentially being their prison guards. Those who were cold or cruel towards their therapists benefited less from their treatment than those who were affectionate and eager to please. John tended to fall in the middle and so was sliding under the radar. However, it was only a matter of time before he was sent on a ‘mission’ and they discovered that his abilities far exceeded that of a DI for NSY. They were also facing a timeline based on the fact that Lestrade ending up in the papers could potentially prove that John was not who he said he was.

During breakfast Sherlock nibbled a bit while John inhaled his food as if he truly was breaking a rather long fast. It wasn’t until John was two-thirds done that Sherlock saw two counselors come out of the back and start discussing his lover. Of course, Sherlock was too far away to hear what they were saying, even with his feline ears, but he could see that they were discussing John by their body language. They also appeared anxious and a bit excited.

“John,” Sherlock stated, “Don’t overreact.”

“About what?” John asked, keeping his face neutral… or trying to.

“You’ve been drugged.”

John paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and Sherlock mentally winced. He really was a horrid actor. It was no shock that the counselors wouldn’t do the surgery when he _clearly_ didn’t want to be altered, but of course John didn’t realize his acting was abysmal. Perhaps Sherlock motivating him by suggesting he actually go through with the procedure would produce better acting on his part, but the detective had no honest hope that his little experiment would work. Of course, they also might just be stalling to keep John here and unsuspecting for as long as possible.

“Drugged?” John asked.

“Pretend I said something funny.”

“Funny’s not the…”

“ _Pretend to laugh_ , you idiot.”

John laughed, dropping his fork down and shaking his head. It was good enough to pass.

“Now what?” John asked, stirring his food around like a petulant teenager.

“Now you tell me what symptoms you’re having.”

“None.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I feel fine.”

“It must not react right away. I need to get you alone somewhere so I can examine you. Flirt with me.”

“You’re injured, they won’t buy me trying to get into your pants.”

“Right. An argument, then.”

John shot to his feet, “YOU SNARKY BASTARD! If you weren’t in that wheelchair I’d _put you in one_!”

John stomped off and Sherlock chased after him, shouting his name and apologizing. Sherlock noted in alarm that the therapists had been _expecting_ an argument, that implied anger was a side effect of the drug they’d given him. They got to John’s room where he slammed the door in Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock simply opened it and followed him in while they both shouted simultaneously until the door shut.

“Sit down, let’s talk about this,” Sherlock stated firmly.

That was _supposed_ to be code for ‘let’s get close enough to whisper’, but John didn’t sit down. He was pacing the room, his pupils dilated and his breathing erratic.

“Youyouyouyouyou…”

“John?” Sherlock asked, alarmed by his behavior.

“You stay the _hell_ away from me!”

“What?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“Stay away from me!” John shouted, “You push and you pull and you demand _everything_ be your way, but I’m bloody _sick_ of it!”

“John,” Sherlock insisted, “You’re not yourself. You just need to…”

“I should have bent you over and _fucked_ you after the first time you decided to be a damn _cock tease!_ ”

Sherlock gaped at him, “I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

John strode up to him and leaned over the wheelchair, hands on each arm and his face within an inch of Sherlock’s face. He was sweating beneath his make up- now applied with less patterning as he’d changed his ‘breed’- and one eye was more dilated than the other. His pulse was so violent Sherlock could see veins popping in his forehead and count it that way.

“You think I need your _permission_? I was a soldier, Sherlock. I killed people,” John whispered, his voice raising Sherlock’s hackles.

“You were a doctor,” Sherlock replied, letting a pleading note edge into his voice.

“I HAD BAD DAYS!” John suddenly screamed in his face.

Sherlock jumped in alarm and his blood pounded in his ears as pain flooded his neurons. Fight or flight took over and he lashed out, but John was moving fast and avoided the swipe of his claws. His foot came up and slammed into Sherlock’s chest. White-hot pain flared through Sherlock’s body and his lungs screamed for air as his chest cavity filled with blood and restricted his lungs while they were stalled from the sudden blow. When he blinked his vision clear John was standing over him with a chair in hand ready to beat him to death.

The door flew open, knocking into Sherlock’s chair, and John was tackled to the floor. A needle pressed to the side of his throat but someone shouted not to dose him.

“He’s suffered trauma! He _can’t_ die! Get him to level 3! Now!”

_Level 3. The medical ward._

John was screaming and shouting like a wild thing, thrashing and fighting off the men and women trying to take him down. Sherlock stared in horror over his shoulder at the sight of John being sat on by three people while another slapped cuffs on his wrists.

“I’m bleeding internally,” He wheezed out, and then lost consciousness.

XXXXXXXXX

When Sherlock woke up in the medical ward John was nowhere in sight. He was told he’d been out for days, but when he asked after John they told him he had been moved to a different ward to avoid another violent situation. They sat down and talked to him as if he were in an abusive relationship and needed to find his way out. He told them in no uncertain terms that they lacked so many brain cells he feared for their descendents, nay even their ability to successfully _copulate_ without someone giving them step-by-step directions.

There was one good point to this whole situation. He was in the medical ward and was _conscious._ He could retrieve the gun John had hidden there, where John’s previous attempts had failed. The second he had a chance, claiming a need to roam, he made his way into the halls, located the bathroom John had described, and slipped inside to retrieve the gun. It was still there so he dried off the bag and slipped it into his gown. Once back to his room he hid the gun and waited impatiently for the chance to get it down to level 5 where John was likely worried about him.

It was a few days before he was released and when he was he found out that John’s therapy sessions had been altered as well as his location changed. Sherlock had been barred from seeing him, and his attempts to contact him had failed miserably. His last hope was Janine. Sherlock had been delaying his ‘release’ (if you could call it that) from the facility by flirting with her and she was incredibly responsive to him. So now he turned to her once more to try and get his hands on John once more.

“He’s my _mate_ , Janine,” Sherlock pleaded, “I need him back!”

“Felissapiens don’t mate for life,” Janine scolded lightly, “Don’t try to play tricks with me, Sherly.”

“I _love_ him,” Sherlock tried.

Janine’s eyes softened and she all but melted. Seeing two cats together snuggling was the ultimate squeal-worthy situation for her. She had several cats at home, but they were all of the four-legged variety; likely she feared with her job situation that she’d end up with one of her own beloved pets in the facility being used for… whatever they were being used for.

Janine sighed, “You know, that I know, that you know what’s going on here.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed patiently.

“Then I won’t mince words. John is gone. He was… released,” Her tone sounded so damning, so _final_ , that the breath stuck in Sherlock’s chest.

“When will he be back?” Sherlock demanded to know. He was aware that once a felissapien was fully brainwashed/drugged/whatever he or she would spend most of their time outside the facility with short return trips, likely in order to receive their next orders.

“I have no idea. I don’t think he will.”

“They _all_ come back,” Sherlock stated.

“Not all of them.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock asked with eyes narrowed.

“Some of them… a _lot_ of them… die.”

Sherlock felt his chest clench painfully, “Not John. I can’t lose him. It would end me.”

Janine took in his expression, reading his body language with the expert degree she had, and her eyes widened in alarm.

“You mean that!”

“Of course I do!” Sherlock wanted to pace, but his injury forbid it. He began to drum anxiously on the arm of his wheelchair, “I need out of here.”

“You need to heal.”

“I need to save my lover!”

“Let me try a few things,” Janine stated softly, “Let me review his case. Maybe I can get them to recall him. If I can get a hold of him… there’s an antidote to the drugs. Well… sort of.”

“What do you mean, antidote? Why haven’t you mentioned… oh. Oh, it doesn’t _work_ ,” He read off her face.

“It does,” She sighed, “A bit too well. The solution is fairly simple. Collide both realities by taking both psychotropic drugs. The issue with that being…”

“A psychotic break. Not like the one they induce to get us to kill, but a _real_ break from all realities.”

“Exactly.”

“Yet he’d be able to recall everything, perhaps to focus on stopping this situation.”

“I could slip him a bottle if I could just get _near_ him.”

“Then we must arrange for you to do so.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Give _me_ the drugs.”

“No. He’s watching you, Sherly. He’s watching _everything_ you do. Just looping the cameras so we can have a _real_ private session was dangerous. I can’t give them to you.”

“Janine,” Sherlock leaned forward a bit despite the pain, “I _need_ him. _He_ is my drug. Without him I don’t want to live.”

Janine’s expression was pained, “I’ll think of something, Sherly. I’ll manage.”

“ _I’ll_ think of something. You’ll do as I say!”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Of course it does,” Sherlock scoffed, “It always does.”

“No,” She stated with finality, “It doesn’t.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was back at Baker Street and the scent around him led him to believe that John had been there recently- within the last few days. Small notes written on paper and placed in a bag he’d inserted in his rectum (where had he gotten such a foul yet effective idea?) along with that plastic gun he’d designed had given him the clues he needed. He sought out Henry Knight with the intent of bringing their little rebellion to a full. Mycroft was out of contact with him. Apparently he had denounced Sherlock in order to keep his post in the government- the post no one knew he held.

Henry Knight told him to sneak into Dewer’s Hollow that night and that John would be on a mission there to kill a doctor from Baskerville by the name of Frankland. All Sherlock had to do was get his blogger back to Baskerville and a contact there by the name of Janine would give him something to help them both get free. Why she couldn’t give it to Sherlock, he had no idea, but John would protect him. John _always_ protected him.

Then he stood in Dewer’s Hollow and faced a stony-faced John and his confidence wavered.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock’s hands were constantly sweating. He had so rarely had to face fear in his life that to have it forced upon him now was a shock. He had no idea how to react, but freezing up or even pausing to think about it wasn’t an option. If he did someone would die and- perhaps more painful to him personally- they’d take away his tablet.

Sherlock’s tablet was a link to John. He could see John 24/7 on that tablet… but the cameras on the other end weren’t activated unless he obeyed Moriarty. For every completed task he got another hour of screen time with John. When he completed an assassination he would get to see him in person for an hour. Sadly, an assassination hadn’t come up yet.

_What would John think of me, sitting here hoping for the chance to murder someone in order to see him?_

“Yoo hoo!” Moriarty’s voice sang out from the doorway to the lab, walking through it with a sharp rap at the frame.

“What?!” Sherlock snapped.

“Touchy! Someone needs a bit of tail, eh?” Moriarty teased.

“A week without sex is hardly going to destroy me,” Sherlock replied with a snort.

Sherlock’s eyes drank in the sight of John on the tablet beside his microscope; the man was pacing his surprisingly roomy cell. Sherlock had twelve hours saved up. The clock didn’t start until he turned it on and stopped when he shut it off, so he could save it up for free time rather than wasting it while working. Sadly this particular experiment was going to take him over two days of non-stop work, so the sight of John was as necessary as water.

“Yet here you are, staring at his arse,” Moriarty commented.

Sherlock didn’t reply. It was just happenstance that John had flopped down on the bunk, displaying his full bottom to the camera in a quite fetching manner, and they both knew it. Then John rolled over and began to tug his trousers open. When he reached into his pants Sherlock finally registered that John was about to wank and shut off the tablet so Moriarty couldn’t see.

“Oh, would you like me to leave?” Moriarty asked, his tone polite, “I know you two get so little time together, such moments must be precious.”

“Would you if I asked you to?”

Moriarty’s polite smile turned reptilian, “Only if you begged.”

“I’m your prisoner, not your boyfriend.”

“Aren’t those one and the same?”

“No.”

“As you like,” Moriarty laughed, “I hope you aren’t getting comfortable Sherlock, because this is just step one. Next you’ll be playing with the big dogs. _Woof!_ ”

Moriarty sashayed out of the room and Sherlock turned his screen back on, then narrowed his eyes in confusion. John was masturbating, but there was an oddly concentrated look on his face. He was _plotting_ something. Who plotted while _wanking_? Yet he was. He was moving his hand, glancing into his trousers where his lewd act was hidden, and as if he were reading something. His second hand moved into his trousers and fiddled about, but Sherlock wasn’t fooled for a second. He wasn’t fondling his bollocks; he was unscrewing something. Then he closed his eyes, biting his lip as he came, and Sherlock leaned forward in curiosity to see what he would do.

Sensually licking his ejaculate off his hand was the last thing Sherlock expected and he cocked his head to one side in confusion. He’d needed to sneak something into his mouth obviously, and that was the way he’d managed it. John was using his semen to swallow a pill, the bottle being hidden in his trousers. What pill?

 _Oh! Janine! Janine you clever thing! You’re cleverer than Moriarty, and you’re dead_!

A few hours later the alarms went off and Sherlock dropped a vial of acid onto the floor in his haste to reach his tablet. John’s cell was full of scared looking guards surrounding one who had been murdered.

XXX

John woke up and was instantly on alert. This wasn’t home. Where the hell this was he had no idea, but it was dark, damp, and smelled of mildew. The only light source was a small laptop, plugged into a wall and left on with no screensaver. The image was of Lestrade, so he crawled off the mat he had been sleeping on, across the damp floor while staring around the nearly empty basement in search of enemies. When he reached the laptop he clicked the video on and was soon mesmerized.

“John, don’t panic. You’re not in danger. Not immediate danger, anyway, and last I checked Sherlock was alive. I’m on your side, but most everyone else isn’t. Trust no one until after you’ve taken the pills. You’re going to feel off, that’s the pills. You have to take one of each again, but you have to do several things first. Shower. Eat. Drink at least two cups of water. Trust me, you need to. You won’t be in a fit state to do any of those things after you take them.”

The clip ended and John stood up anxiously. He reeked and was starved, so much so that he was dizzy, but along side that was an itch beneath his skin and behind his eyes.

 _Addiction_.

John headed for the unwalled bathroom and relieved himself, gulping down water before staggering to the hole in the ground and pipe that served as a shower. He scrubbed himself with the soap he found there, using it on his hair as well since there was no shampoo, and dried off with a relatively clean-smelling towel. He headed back to the mat and opened up a suitcase at the head of it, pulling out some clean clothes and dressing while shivering in the cool air; once dressed he searched the suitcase for the pills but found none. He set about systematically searching the room, his skin crawling the longer he went without them. He was sweating and shaking when he found a loose tile on the floor and pried it up to reveal a small bottle. There were two types of pills inside, red and blue, and the instructions written on the outside were taped over to preserve them.

**Red for inside Baskerville. Blue for outside of Baskerville. Both if one doesn’t work.**

“If I’ve ever read more ridiculous instructions… what doctor would condone…”

John sighed and went to fetch another glass of water, downing the blue pill. He automatically downed the red as well, frowning at his own strange behavior.

 _I hope that doesn’t prove fatal_.

John sat down to eat the only food stuffs around, a tin of beans on a shelf near the stairwell. He wasn’t about to leave the area until he was completely ready. If he found better food up above then he’d make use of it despite his full belly. By the time he was done eating his skin had stopped crawling and a pleasant hum filled the back of his skull. Then the memories hit him like a wave.

 _Making an agreement with Dr. Mortimer. Forcing his way out of Baskerville, but not finding Sherlock. Blood. So much blood. So much death. Finding Lestrade. Seeking out a way to communicate with himself when he woke up confused and without his proper memories. Day after day, searching for a way to get Sherlock out of Baskerville. Using Mycroft’s aid to silently and secretly thwart Moriarty’s plans. Sinking deeper into the rage and coldness that came with the drugs. Realizing that everyone was against him, that he must stand alone. That if Sherlock had stayed in Baskerville for as long as he had he must have fallen for Moriarty. Deciding he would get Sherlock back or kill them_ both _trying._

John stood in front of the mirror in the basement and smiled at himself.

_I am all knowing. I am all-powerful. I am death and destruction. I am murder._

XXXXXXXXXX

“John, don’t panic. I know you don’t know where you are, but you aren’t in immediate danger and Sherlock is still alive. I’m supposed to tell you to find and take some pills but… look I’m still your friend, but this has to stop. I know you’re scared because you don’t remember anything of the last month or so, but you’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you. Even Mycroft wants you to stop taking them. I tried to get them away, but you broke my nose for my efforts. I’ve no idea where you hid them, but _don’t look_ _for them_. I’m not just asking you John, I’m begging you. I have your notes. I have your instructions. You don’t need the pills. We can finish this a different way. Nobody else needs to die.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John’s capture had been frustrating, but at least he’d had the pills with him. In fact, he had more now. It had been a simple thing to break in and get a hold of the medicine he needed to keep his memories. Now he just had to get to Sherlock and get his beloved free.

_But first I’ll get the surgery. Once I’m one of his kind he won’t be able to resist me. I’ll drag his purring ass into bed and keep him there forever. Funny how Moriarty was so quick to assume I’d just had some reaction to the pills. Aren’t ordinary people adorable?_

XXXXXXXXXX

John woke up, stretched, and reached for Sherlock. He was gone. For a moment he rolled his eyes and thought the berk had gotten up to do some experiment. Then he recalled where they’d been the night before and sat up straight in alarm. He scrambled out of the bed and cast his eyes around. The bunk above him held a stranger, who gave him an odd look.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t know anyone else was here. You move in last night? You new?” The felissapien asked.

“New?” John asked, his panic growing.

“Yeah,” The chap sat up, “I’m Sven. Hey, relax, it’s okay here, you know?”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Sherlock? The berk with the loud mouth?”

“Yes!”

“I think his room is…”

John bolted into the hall and glanced around. He wasn’t even on the same level! He fled to Sherlock’s room and threw open the door. Sherlock had been mid-pace. He froze, gave John a shocked and relieved look, and pounced on him.

“Oh my gods, _John_ ,” Sherlock breathed, clutching him against himself tightly. John shamelessly buried his face in Sherlock’s soft, fuzzy neck and held tight.

“How long?”

“A month since the Hollow. They told me you were getting the surgery, but then you escaped and they told me to keep working or they’d hunt you down, and then they just told me they had no idea where you were. Even the contacts I made turned up blank,” Sherlock whispered as he held him tightly.

John started purring at the feel of the cat’s fingers running through his hair and stroking down his back.

_Wait, what?_

John stepped back and looked down at his bare chest in alarm. His shoulders were a mottled shade of two different greys and his belly a light tan color. He could feel his light fur rise up all along his neck, back, and tail. Sound had become muffled and it took him a moment to realize it was because his ears were plastered flat to his head. His claws were out nicking his ears as he frantically explored them with anxious digits, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from gently taking his hands and holding them away from John’s vulnerable flesh.

“John? John, deep breath. You’re hyperventilating. John! Oi! You! Clear the bottom bunk!”

John was dragged over to the bottom bunk and gently urged to lie down, he instinctively curled up, his tail wrapping around himself, and shook from head to toe.

“John,” Sherlock soothed, petting his fur gently while kneeling on the ground in front of the bunk, “It’s going to be okay. You’re gorgeous like this. And if you’re really unhappy it _can_ be reversed… with substantial side effects and a great deal of scarring. Do you remember anything? Do you remember Moriarty?”

“Shut up,” John ground out, “Just shut up.”

Sherlock fell silent, continuing to pet John and scratch a bit behind his ears until John’s body slowly stopped shaking and he was able to focus on more than breathing slowly and evenly.

“Moriarty?” John asked, his brain doing flips, “I’ve got this vague… recollection… of some bloke in a suit and… pain.”

“You were nearly mad with it.”

“We’re still prisoners.”

“Yes and no. We have knowledge now- _I_ have knowledge- as to what is really going on here.”

“Talk. Talk and don’t stop until I’m comfortable in this… _fur_ I’ve got now.”

“Very well. Tell me the last thing you remember.”

“You being shot,” John replied.

“That was over two months ago,” Sherlock explained in shock, “You should remember more than that.”

“I don’t.”

“Never mind about before the Hollow, none of it matters. I’ve been kept prisoner here since then. Moriarty has forced me to work on everything from his damned pills to designing illegal businesses to bring in money. That aside, you were prisoner here for a time and then got free. They kept track of you, but your movements were erratic and there were several times you foiled their plans though… well, mostly they were letting you.”

“Letting me?” John asked in confusion.

“It was the best way to keep you in their sites. They had a sniper trained on you most all the time, until they lost you for a bit. I tried to break out then, but I wasn’t successful. I suspect it was all a ploy, because next I know they’re telling me they have you in custody and they’re going to do the surgery on you, but that they’ll turn you into a goldfish if I don’t cooperate. That was nearly a month ago. I assume you’ve been healing since then.”

“Why don’t I remember anything? Why does everything _itch_?”

“You’re showing signs of withdrawal,” Sherlock explained gently, still petting John’s anxious form, “Where are the pills?”

Those words triggered something in John. Something feral. Something frightening. Before he knew what he was doing he’d lashed out and clawed Sherlock’s hand, hissing as he did so. The consulting detective pulled his hand back and licked at the wound while studying John’s face.

“Interesting.”

“Oh gods, Sherlock, I’m sorry!” John stammered.

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock replied with a tight smile, “Just the natural reaction of an addict trying to get a fix. We’ll have to get you to come down from this if we’re going to…”

The door opened and Sherlock growled at the intruder. Moriarty strode into the room, his hands casually placed in his trouser pockets and a smile on his face.

“Manners, Sherlock,” Moriarty sneered, “You two are becoming more and more entertaining by the second! I expected you to be shagging each other’s brains out. I didn’t give him barbs if that’s what you’re afraid of, Sherly. Even _I’m_ not that cruel… though it would be funny.”

“What do you want, Jim?” Sherlock asked, standing up and growling at him as his tail lashed angrily.

“John’s late for his felissapien integration courses,” Moriarty replied with a pleasant smile, “We wouldn’t want him to have trouble integrating with society, now would we? He needs to learn how to interact as a felissapien.”

“I’ll teach him whatever he needs to know, now piss off!”

“Oh, touchy touchy.”

Moriarty pulled a remote from his pocket and hit the button. To John’s horror Sherlock collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain and clawing at a collar around his neck.

“Stop it! Just stop! Please!” John shouted, staggering to his feet.

“Well, look who’s tame today,” Moriarty murmured, “Very well… since you said please.”

Sherlock lay limp on the floor, panting and trembling a bit, his eyes found John’s and then looked away. Ashamed.

“You have one hour to reacquaint yourselves and then we’re going to be discussing business. I suggest you two make the most of it. You never know when my patience with you will wear thin.”


	15. Chapter 15

**ARTISTS WANTED!** I’m looking for artists to draw me some John Catson pics for this story… and my own personal collection. Pic above to be used for reference, but I’ll not limit your artistic expression. J Message me at <https://www.facebook.com/vinny.meoblinn> Full credit will begiven to you under either name or pseudonym, as you desire.

(I had to alter a bit of the memory sequence in Ch 13. My bad. It’s not very noticeable.)

 

 

Moriarty strode from the room as John slid down to the floor and gently checked the cat’s pulse.

“Talk to me. What’s your name?”

“Sherlock, but I refuse to believe _that_ much of your memory is gone.”

“I’m trying to see how injured you are, you berk,” John sighed.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sherlock growled, sitting up shakily, “I’m much more concerned with our predicament. We have to get out of here.”

John nodded, “So what is it I’m addicted to?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, “That’s what’s on your mind? We haven’t seen each other for ages, there’s a time limit to our privacy, and you’re interested in what you’re hooked on?”

“Well… it’s good to see you.”

“Good to see me. Hm,” Sherlock pushed himself to his feet using John’s shoulders as a support.

“It’s just…” John stood up, and held out his shaking hands, “I might be able to function better _with_ it.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock replied, taking his hands in his own and examining them, “You’d been becoming more and more erratic last I got sight of you. If it’s what I believe you were taking then you’re getting part of the dose in your food here.”

“Then I think we should head to breakfast,” John stated firmly.

“John,” Sherlock asked, his voice neutral, “You don’t want a kiss even? I’ve missed you.”

“Of course I want a kiss,” John replied, stepping forward and pressing against Sherlock with a purr.

Their lips met and Sherlock moaned into the slow drag, clutching John against him hungrily. Sherlock reached down to cup John’s arsecheeks, pulling him against him so he could grind their hip together. For several minutes the room was filled with heavy breathing, purring, growling, and Sherlock’s soft groans of need. Then John pulled back, looking flustered and a bit alarmed.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice deep with arousal.

“I… I think we should focus on getting out of here,” John stated anxiously.

Sherlock nodded. It was as he’d suspected; the drugs he’d been taking had compromised John’s body. For the time being he was unable to become aroused.

“Yes of course, quite right. How… impulsive of me,” Sherlock panted a bit, trying to get his urges under control. Smelling John was arousing enough; seeing him in all his felissapien glory- despite the fact he still smelled mostly human- was utterly erotic. He wanted to throw him down and take him fast and hard, but it was important to remember that they had to get their freedom. Then John would be his and he would belong to John. They could twine their tails together- well, John only had a stub, but there would be twining- by the fireside and chase down criminals to their hearts’ content.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you later,” John replied, his eyes showing his insecurity and longing at the same time, “I’m just… I’m not used to this body.”

Sherlock nodded, “Your responses will be different for a time. It may feel a bit like losing your virginity all over again.”

“So intimidating, awkward, embarrassing, and over stimulating?”

“Exactly.”

“Great. Just what I always wanted. To feel like a teenager again.”

“Sarcasm?”

“Yes, sarcasm. Food?”

Sherlock nodded and they headed out to the cafeteria where Sherlock selected John’s food for him. He’d lied about the drugs being in the food, which distracted John from where they really were. The water. Instead he handed him pop, stating he needed the sugar and caffeine combo to recuperate. John gave the tea a longing look but took Sherlock at his word. They selected a table in the center where noise from other people would drown out their discussion.

“Don’t be fooled, _they_ can still hear us,” Sherlock stated.

“I assumed. So now what?”

“Now we do our best to escape.”

“Ummm, about them being able to hear us?”

“Not a problem. They are expecting it anyway; he’d be disappointed if I didn’t. You just follow my lead.”

“Okay,” John replied, devouring his food and guzzling his soda, “I didn’t realize how hungry I am. Aren’t you going to eat?”

Sherlock picked up some toast from John’s plate but he snatched it back from him with a wild look in his eyes and an angry hiss, his teeth showing and his tawny ears laid back.

“Don’t hurt me again,” Sherlock said softly.

“Wh-what?” John asked, a look of alarm on his face.

“Don’t hurt me again.”

“Like… leaving? I can’t stop that, Sherlock. They might take me from you by force,” John reached for his hand, but Sherlock pulled away.

“I meant that literally, John. Last time you were affected by these drugs they’ve been feeding us you attacked and nearly killed me.”

John’s eyes widened and he put down the toast and pushed away from the table, staring at the food in horror.

“I didn’t,” He denied.

“You kicked me in that bullet wound you remember me having. I nearly bled to death internally.”

“Shit,” John muttered, looking up at him, “I can’t read you. I can’t tell if this is a joke or not.”

“It isn’t. Look at my ears. My tail. The way I’m feeling is clear if you care to _see_.”

“I’m so damn muddled, Sherlock,” John replied miserably, “I don’t want to hurt you but nothing makes sense. You tell me I attacked you, but I don’t remember… but I sort of do.”

“The last time we spoke in Dewer’s Hollow you didn’t remember we were lovers, but you still remembered loving me. That was a… an unfamiliar sort of hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” John replied, looking down at his hands, “I have no idea what to say or do. Just… get us out of here, Sherlock. Before it gets worse. _Can_ it even get worse?”

“Very much so, I’m afraid. After all we still have our lives.”

“And each other,” John replied, but his ears twitched to imply a question.

Sherlock brought his own ears forward in a friendly gesture, “Yes, we have each other.”

John visibly relaxed and Sherlock spent the rest of their mealtime watching the therapists/guards while John shifted in misery. He was clearly at least a month into withdrawal, having been given half doses of the drug that entire time while he healed up from the surgery and genetic alterations that made him look felissapien. He wouldn’t be suffering horribly, but he would be craving that extra dose; the one that would give him his memories back while stealing his sanity.

“You recall only Baskerville memories, but even some of those are missing,” Sherlock noted as two guards headed for them.

“Yeah, so?”

“So keep in mind that you don’t know all that is going on and trust me. I will get you out of this.”

“Not if I get you out first,” John smiled, standing as they were told to follow the two men standing over them.

“Don’t be brave.”

“It isn’t bravery,” John replied, but didn’t elaborate further as they were led off, Sherlock’s tail wrapped around his waist.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

They were halfway to their destination- Moriarty’s posh rooms- when Sherlock noticed that John’s body language had changed. He was moving more purposefully, his shoulders squared in confidence, and when he glanced Sherlock’s way his pupils were dilated. A sweat had broken out across his brow and his breath was quickening.

_He had them on him! He’s taken the pills!_

Sherlock’s mind raced ahead, chasing down avenues of possible futures. John’s actions were now unpredictable, but some elements were more likely than others. He would most certainly be violent, angry, and perhaps even paranoid if the possessive gleam in his eyes were anything to be counted on. This combination would have proved quite erotic had it not been drug induced and hazardous to their survival. John thought he was protecting them, but Moriarty needed a calm presence and John was about to become the exact opposite of that. It could ignite Moriarty’s madness.

_I’m about to enter an enclosed space with two unstable individuals bound and determined to take each other out… all over me._

For Moriarty was undoubtedly in lust with Sherlock. He saw him as the ideal partner, his equal in intelligence. He thought he was equally mad, but Sherlock’s claims to a sociopathic state were inaccurate. He was most likely autistic*, though he had never been tested. The fact he was felissapien also contributed to his odd behavior (in human eyes) since they would not be able to read him as well as another human. Moriarty, of course, had no idea that Sherlock might be anything except as insane as he was.

They entered the rooms, opulent and decorated in the height of English fashion. The lighting was dim and the fire was high. Moriarty sat draped in a red dressing gown, looking fit for a porno. It was likely planned. He smiled up at them while swirling a glass of amber liquid and Sherlock suppressed a laugh at the ridiculousness of the scenario. Then he recalled the state of the man beside him when John started to growl low in his throat.

“Oh relax, Johnny,” Moriarty grinned, “Honestly, you really ought to teach him to come to heel, Sherlock. Cats can be trained, too.”

“You _are_ aware you’re a felissapien too, aren’t you?” John demanded to know.

“Don’t be obvious,” Moriarty snorted.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock insisted as the door shut behind them and the guards remained on the other side, “Do shut up.”

“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” John snarled, “Or does he get to fuck you?”

Moriarty gave John a surprised look, “Is this the new side of him I’ve been hearing about? I understand he’s been decidedly less boring lately.”

_He doesn’t know about the pills?_

“Ignore him. John, there’s nothing between Moriarty and I,” Sherlock insisted.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Moriarty snickered, “I certainly feel a special something when we’re arguing out your next kill.”

“ _I_ would,” Sherlock stated firmly, “Do try not to upset my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? Is that all I am? In the Hollow I asked you to _marry_ me!”

“John,” Sherlock moved closer, trying to tug him against himself, but John shoved him away.

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes! If you think for one second I’m going to let you go you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll kill you first.”

“Oh, good!” Moriarty cackled, rising to his feet, “This is better than I ever could have imagined! You…”

Moriarty paused. He’d been coming closer and John had turned to face him in order to keep him in front of him, drawing his full attention for the first time. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed as he took in John’s full range of symptoms for the first time.

“Oh, Johnny boy, you really, really shouldn’t have done that. Those aren’t _meant_ to be taken together. Are they Sherlock?” Moriarty chortled.

Sherlock shook his head, but he had no breath to reply. He was starting to feel odd himself. His heart rate was rising steadily and his vision was starting to shimmer. He’d been on enough drugs to know what came next.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “How? When? How did I not _notice_?”

“You trust me too much,” John replied softly, “You looked away to check on where the guards were and I slipped it into your soda. Carbonization made it dissolve rather fast, but I don’t think you got a full dose.”

It was like being hit with images. His memories rushed back and he was left gasping while crouched on the floor, shaking from head to toe.

_Standing on the roof of St. Barts, rifle on his shoulder. All he needed was one good shot. BANG! That was one less political figure to harass Moriarty._

_Standing in a posh flat with a strange man kneeling nearby on the floor. Mycroft is in the room, but he’s unconscious. Before him stands a woman with cold eyes and pretty blonde curls. She has a gun pointed to his chest. “Sorry, Sherlock, but Magnusson is still needed.” BANG! One less consulting detective in the world… no No NO!!! John! John is in danger! I can’t die on him! Breathe! Focus! Don’t go into shock! Fall backwards. Keep the bullet lodged. John!_

_Standing in a room with a pool to one side. Across from him stands a frightened man, very heavy, wearing a security guard’s uniform. He’s begging for his life, promising not to tell anyone about a painting. Sherlock doesn’t want to shoot him but he must. BANG! Poor idiot, it was alarming that a hobby could result in murder._

_Guilt. Overwhelming guilt. Not knowing why he had murdered people. Am I going insane? Will John still want me? Sally was right. Where is John? Where am I? Why can’t I remember anything after walking up to the gates of Baskerville?_

Sherlock staggered to his feet, his senses heightened to the point of overwhelming. He could _see_ Moriarty’s breathe swirling in front of him in pastel hues with every breath out. How did John _handle_ this with barely any physical change? It must have been the build up in his system.

“Well now Sherlock, I really thought you were smarter than that,” Moriarty stated with some disappointment, and then raised a gun to shoot John in the head, “Allow me to alleviate part of your problem.”

Sherlock howled like a wild thing and tackled Moriarty to the ground. The term ‘fur flies’ became literal as they rolled around on the ground, tails puffed up and claws out. John joined in the fray and the copper scent of blood filled the air. Sherlock wasn’t even sure who was bleeding and who had drawn blood. He suspected John had gotten in a hit or two on him, and that he’d clawed John in his rage, but before he quite knew what was happening he was pinned down by Moriarty on his belly while the feline growled and bit the back of his neck. Moriarty was rutting his hips against Sherlock’s backside, scuffing his tail uncomfortably while he rubbed his hard on against his arse. John let out an outraged scream and dove for the madman’s throat. Sherlock was flipped onto his back with the force of the tackle, kicked hard in the ribs, and then left to choke and gasp while the two tore at each other viciously.

Sherlock scrambled upright, trying to see who was winning but the answer was a resounding ‘no one’. Moriarty was a formidable fighter and John was too blinded by rage and unused to his felissapien claws and teeth. Sherlock dove in to preserve his lover’s life; his own blood pounding so hard in his ears that sound was a mere memory. He managed to slam Moriarty’s head into the corner of a table and then tackled John instinctively. They rolled about on the floor, biting and snarling before John flipped Sherlock onto his belly. This time Sherlock’s tail twitched to the side and he spread his legs wide in acceptance. John growled in approval and settled between his thighs to rub up against him. His growls faded to purrs and groans as he frotted against Sherlock’s backside. Sherlock shoved a hand in his trousers, moaning in bliss as pleasure sent blood pounding into his prick. He was hard and wanting, but that need went straight out of his head when hands wrapped around his throat.

“I told you I wouldn’t share you, Sherlock,” John growled, still thrusting against him as he began to choke the life out of Sherlock, “I’ll end you and then Moriarty. Then you’ll be mine forever. I’ll polish your skull and keep you on the mantle next to your previous friend. Was he your lover, too? Hm? Is that how little I mean to you, Sherlock? After all I’ve done? _Sacrificed_?”

Sherlock struggled, scratching at his hands as his vision began to white out. He was still hard and John’s thrusts were pressing him against the floor. It was a combination of pain and pleasure that mixed precariously with his loss of air. John groaned and his grip loosened as he climaxed in his trousers. Sherlock managed to get one of John’s hands loose enough to gasp in air and came hard enough to black out.

_John…_

*Sherlock being autistic has been up for debate since Autism was first discovered, first being related to Sir Arthur Conan Doyles’ books and now to the BBC show with John taking a joking/guess/diagnosis of Aspergers. Here are some articles for those interested in joining the debate, as I am no doctor and have no actual opinion of the matter myself. For the sake of this story we’re going for a combo of Aspergers and Felissapien communication differences.

 

<http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/47219236641/sherlock-does-not-have-aspergers-or-autism-thanks>

<http://globalcomment.com/bbcs-sherlock-asperger%E2%80%99s-syndrome-and-sociopathy/>

<http://www.autismdailynewscast.com/was-sherlock-holmes-autistic/5719/shanellis/>


	16. Chapter 16

Sorry this is so short. It just kinda happened.

 

John was shaking from head to toe. He’d killed Sherlock. His love. His reason for living. His… no. No he was breathing! Shallowly, but still breathing. John leaned over him, trying hard to get his mind under his own control enough to examine him like a doctor instead of a raving lunatic. Sherlock’s throat would bruise badly, but he hadn’t broken anything. Thankfully he’d been half focused on reaching orgasm and hadn’t had a perfect grip. Moriarty stirred so John snatched Sherlock up off the floor, heaving him into a fireman’s carry and looking around in fear. He went through the door to his right snarled at the sight of a toilet and turned to try the door next to it. A bedroom. _Shit_. There were guards out front; he couldn’t just head out there with Sherlock over his shoulders and Moriarty unconscious behind him!

The doorknob behind him turned so John gave up and hurried forward to hide in the cupboard like a frightened child. Except the bi-folding doors ahead of him opened up on a small room instead of a closet: a room with a _throne_ in the middle. John hurried in and shut the doors behind him, noticing after they were closed that it was an elevator he’d stepped into. It had three buttons marked with letters instead of numbers: R, L, H, and E.

_E could be exit, but it could also be anything else knowing that madman._

John lowered Sherlock to the floor and looked up at the top of the elevator. It was a matter of seconds to climb on top of the throne and pry open the maintenance hatch, but it felt like hours with people shouting to search the rooms not far off. He grabbed Sherlock and unceremoniously shoved him up into the shaft, shoving at his legs until they were up inside. Then he climbed up as well and slid the hatch closed. He stared up at the dark shaft, but his night vision wasn’t enhanced enough to see the end. He pushed Sherlock as far as he could to one side of the ropes and himself to the other. He would have to pray that it was the right positioning or they would be crushed if and when the elevator moved.

Someone opened the doors and he heard them swear, “Did you know his Highness had a bloody elevator in here?!”

“No. Fucking hell. E for exit?”

“Hell if I know. For all I know it’s E for Elephant. He’s had stranger pets. I’ll take it to each floor while you call for backup, but _don’t_ take your eyes off the front. Who knows what other odd things are in this place.”

The elevator moved up for a bit and John hurried to move Sherlock in order to avoid them being crushed to death, but there was a good deal more room above than he’d expected. Now he just had to wait for Sherlock to wake up, which happened long before he was done practicing how to apologize.

Sherlock groaned and shifted and John reached out to touch his lips, “Hush, love.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “Ow.”

“I know,” John whispered, “But we must be silent. Just a moment longer.”

The elevator reached the bottom and started up again before the man inside stepped out and informed them that the elevator did indeed lead outside.

“The exit tops up in a damn shed. It was locked from inside and didn’t look tampered with and the only windows were barred. I searched it but saw nothing. Honestly this…”

Their voices drifted off but John waited a bit longer before moving closer to Sherlock and petting his hair gently.

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry. Take them, these are all of them,” John pressed the pills into Sherlock’s paw, “Let me help you get out and then you’ll never need to see me again.”

“Not what I want.”

“I hurt you, Sherlock. I tried to kill you. _More than once_.”

“I know.”

“You can’t know I won’t be a danger to you again.”

“I can and I do,” Sherlock replied, taking the pills and tipping them off the edge between the elevator and the shaft. John hissed but then rolled onto his back and rubbed at his face, “Was it sobering? Seeing me near death?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I’d like you to be somewhat less _insane_ while we break out of Baskerville.”

Sherlock was the one to slip down into the elevator and hit the button while John waited above him. His lithe form moved quickly and agilely, leaping back up into their sanctuary while the elevator moved up to freedom. Except it didn’t. It moved down.

“Fuck. I thought you hit E?” John whispered.

“I did.”

They both slipped down this time, worried about what the doors would open up on. What greeted them gave them pause.

“Huh. It _is_ an elephant,” John laughed.

“Let’s go. R for roof.”

“The guard said it was a shed…”

“I know what the guard said,” Sherlock replied, “but it was a trap.”

“What?” John asked in alarm, only to turn to face Sherlock and meet his fist.

 

Me: I'm BORED of drama in catlock! I want SEX! /pouts/  
Muse: All good things to those who wait.  
Me: If it's going to be 'good' sex I don't want it.  
Muse: Would I do that to you?  
Me: Yes.  
Muse: You'd still enjoy it.  
Me: /sigh/ yeah.


	17. Chapter 17

John woke in the elevator once again, but the doors were open and the device seemed not to be functioning when he scrambled upright and slammed his hand against the buttons. He staggered out of the elevator to find himself in a gigantic library filled with books, artwork, and filing cabinets. He staggered about for a while, looking for stairs or another elevator or really _anything_ that could get him to his beloved. When he found nothing workable he tried to climb up into the elevator shaft only to find it blocked from above.

John screamed in rage, flying through the library and throwing things to the floor. Statues shattered at his feet. Books flew like birds through the air. Papers were torn asunder. Then John found an area labeled ‘B’ and stopped, the gilded letter catching his eye as it reminded him of the sign outside the building. _Baskerville_. He glanced back and saw he had devastated Z through C.

_Who designs a library with an entrance at Z? Shouldn’t the entrance be at A? Unless Moriarty’s elevator is the exit and the entrance is somewhere ahead?_

John strode forward, content to pass straight through B when he recalled it’s resemblance to the sign outside.

 _Baskerville_. _What if I can find something here? Sherlock wouldn’t have sent me someplace pointless, he’s not that sort of cat. He could have sent me to wait with the elephant, but instead he sent me here. Why? What is in here? Baskerville. The proof we need to take down Baskerville. They’ve been working on gene alterations that could save lives; create healthy organs for those who need it, re-grow limbs, reverse birth defects that would mean a lifetime of pain. Instead they’re using it for Moriarty’s gain. That benefit should be free to the world._

John knew his mind was starting to clear of the drugs, that he’d need to take more to remember anything and that the longer he’d taken them the more of his memories vanished. This time he might not remember Baskerville at all. Then what? He’d be useless.

_No. That’s the addiction talking. The pills are gone. They aren’t coming back. Help Sherlock. Get what he needs before the meds wear off._

John searched madly, pulling things down and opening every book and file. He found nothing labeled ‘Baskerville’. Not a single thing. Only when every shelf and file cabinet under ‘B’ had been eliminated did he stop and pause, panting in the middle of the gigantic section.

 _Maybe the next bit over_.

John strode around the corner and then paused. He was at that halfway point in the medication. The point where he still had his memories but didn’t have the rage anymore. He was able to _think_ , and think he did. And see. He saw, as Sherlock always insisted he must. He stepped backwards, glancing at the empty shelves, then stepped forward into ‘A’ and looked at the full ones. Then backwards. Then forward. Then he grinned and strode forward, knocking everything off of the shelves labeled ‘A’.

John laughed. He laughed and began searching for the catch that would release the hidden wall. He had no doubt it would be in ‘A’, but it turned out to be in ‘B’ after all. A snick of a small catch and he shelves split down the middle revealing an entirely different bookshelf beneath. Though shallow, to the point each book laid flat on a tiny ledge, it was clearly of importance. There books turned out to be journals, each chronicaling the life of a cat named Richard Brook. John skimmed each one as his memories faded away, writing down important details on a paper.

**Protect Sherlock. Sherlock is on the roof. **You are a felissapien now. Get over it.**  **

**You are in Baskerville.**

**Your memories are missing.**

**The pills caused you to try and kill Sherlock. Twice. Do not take them. Do not drink or eat in Baskerville.**

**Find information in the hidden bookshelf in the library you are trapped in. Richard Brook is important. He may be linked to Moriarty.**

**Richard Brook is the assumed name of the first felissapien born with two legs instead of four. He led a difficult life, hiding in horrific conditions in the sewers of London. His own kind hated him and he hated them back. His first murder was a homeless man who stole his free coffee. He was only a year old. He enjoyed killing and was soon inventing more and more interesting ways to do it, toying with the police by giving them impossible crime scenes.**

**The ‘Jack the Ripper’ case was his.**

**Timeline is off. First note on Richard Brook was turn of the previous century. Jack the Ripper case was noted as this year. He would be 193 years old, while felissapien average lifespan is 70 years.**

**Separate book details anti-aging process, making Brook permanently 30 years old for as long as his treatment continues. It requires healthy felissapiens to donate cells. It mentions half-felissapiens being more viable since humans naturally have a longer lifespan, but humans and felissapiens can’t breed? Half-felissapiens were CREATED.**

**RICHARD BROOK IS MORIARTY**

John stood up on shaky legs, his hands trembling and his mind lost in mire and misery. He read over his notes again and again. They made sense but they didn’t. Every time he read them they felt new, but at the same time he had a strange sense that he had read them before.

 _Not just read them. I wrote them. They’re in my handwriting_. _And Sherlock needs this information._

John searched the area until he found an exit, but the elevator he located was disabled. He opened a panel to inspect it, figuring it had to be possible since the lights inside were still on, and sure enough he found an emergency shut-off switch had been engaged. John threw it and then studied the buttons.

_Sherlock is on the roof._

John tapped ‘R’ and waited until the doors swung open. He was inside a small, dark building. A busted lock in front of him showed him the way. He exited it and blinked in the blinding sunlight. He saw no one so he began to walk about. Sherlock and Moriarty sat side by side on the ground, their backs to a brick duct shaft, talking quietly with an almost intimate air about them. They looked up when he arrived, halting their conversation. Clearly they had been waiting for him.

“Did you find it?” Sherlock asked.

“Proof that Moriarty and Richard Brook are the same person?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded and John nodded sharply back. Then caught a glint and turned his head to stare at the guns each held loosely in their hands.

“Jim?” Sherlock asked, “We are at an impasse.”

“We settle this the _old_ way,” Moriarty stated, his tone oddly without inflection, “I am so tired, Sherlock. So bored. Just… staying alive. It’s all become so pointless and you have refused to give me a point.”

Moriarty leaned to one side, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock didn’t push it off and John felt anxious for their actions.

“John,” Sherlock spoke softly, “I need you to take that paperwork to Lestrade.”

“I’m not leaving you,” John replied softly.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Sherlock replied with a sad smile, “I mean after.”

“After?”

“Ten paces,” Moriarty stated, his voice still without inflection.

“John,” Sherlock spoke softly as he and Moriarty stood like solidified water, placing themselves back-to-back in one smooth motion, “Don’t interfere. You are our witness. Moriarty has far-reaching arms. He has manipulated even my brother against me. I _must_ end this, and it must be ended here and now.”

They began to step, counting each out loud, and John felt a growing horror in his gut. This looked far too much like a cheesy scene from a movie, but the guns glistening in their hands couldn’t be anything but real. They wouldn’t just let out a bang and leave the men to walk away. They’d kill them.

“No,” John stammered, “Stop. This can’t be the only way, it’s _barbaric_.”

“We can’t outwit each other,” Sherlock stated by way of explanation, “A gentleman’s duel is the only way.”

“A _gentleman’s_ … it’s illegal!”

“So are many things we’ve done,” Sherlock laughed, and then stood still, “Call it out, John.”

“No.”

“On the count of three, if you please,” Sherlock stated.

John swallowed, “When I reach three you turn and fire. One… Two… _Three_.”

 

_A/N: I’m not even sorry. *cackles wickedly*_


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock and Moriarty spun to face each other. Both guns went off simultaneously, John’s ears ringing and images of Afghanistan flashing through his eyes. When his mind cleared both men were still standing.

John blinked.

Moriarty giggled.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, Jim, this was supposed to _work!_ ” Sherlock snapped.

“You shot my bullet, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted as though caught out.

“I was aiming for the same.”

“This is getting _dull_ ,” Sherlock groused, his tail lashing in frustration.

“The question is,” Moriarty asked, “What you planned to do once your only bullet was gone? I _know_ you didn’t sneak and keep another.”

“And I know you didn’t either.”

“Then what now? Swords? Oh, tell me you’ve hidden a sword somewhere!” Moriarty crowed.

“Do I _look_ like I’ve hidden a sword somewhere?” Sherlock snapped, indicating his tight dress clothes and tapping one glossy shoe.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow and Sherlock sighed, undoing his belt and pulling a [thin, flexible sword from within](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdkemsRmvCA).

“Oh, neat!” Moriarty crowed, dropping his gun and clapping his hands while bouncing on the balls of his toes.

Then he reached into his trousers and pulled out… his mobile phone? He flipped the charging port open on the bottom and pressed the camera button. [Sparks flew out of the end of it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_PF8vQuPG0).

“Yellowjacket,” Sherlock smiled, “How quant.”

John wasn’t looking at the taser though; he was looking at Sherlock. Sherlock, whose tale had twisted behind him to point repeatedly at Moriarty. John lunged, tackling the felissapien to the ground. Sherlock shot forward and got the mobile from Moriarty’s hand with a hearty laugh, giving him a hard kick to help John disable him.

“Just what I needed!” Sherlock crowed.

“My mobile?!” Moriarty laughed, not struggling to fight him off, “It’s just a mobile. There’s nothing special on it.”

“It’s also the only mobile in the _entire_ compound,” Sherlock pointed out, “And you’ve surrounded us so that I can’t get out and get my hands on another. Ironic, isn’t it? That I was stopped from defeating you by so simple a device? A mobile! A mobile! My kingdom for a mobile!… Or your kingdom.”

Sherlock gave him a haughty smirk, walked over to the notebook and took several pictures and then pulled a micro SD out of his ear, flicking it afterwards in discomfort. He slipped the card into Moriarty’s phone and smiled wickedly.

“Say goodbye to your kingdom, your highness.”

“Those records will do you little good,” Moriarty laughed, “So I’m Richard Brook? Who cares?”

Sherlock laughed, “Oh, that’s just for your trial. We can’t have you go through proper procedure under an alias; you’d manage to get away through some annoying legal loophole. No, what I needed to put you away I already got from Magnusson and stored on this card.”

Moriarty’s grin disappeared and John braced himself as the man began to struggle for real. Sherlock walked up to him and his sword flashed out to press against the feline’s throat.

“Not a muscle. Just watch. Just watch as I topple your organization with the push of a button.”

Then Sherlock tapped the screen of the phone and John held his breath.

“Nothing’s happening,” John stated, still holding Moriarty with both hands and legs wrapped around the lithe figure’s body.

“Nothing on the surface no, but look,” Sherlock pointed out into the distance and John glanced aside to see several dark specks headed their way.

“I know what those are, no soldier could forget. Helicopters. But why?”

“To take away our villain,” Sherlock smiled, “Across the entire of Britain you have just been betrayed, Jim… or should I say Richard. Irene was already in my pocket; she was the one who put me on your trail in the first place. We had a… previous acquaintance. Then there was Mrs. Hudson. Honestly, the one person you considered unimportant in your previous employer’s drug cartel! So she pole danced and slept with the boss… she also kept the records! She knew it all! Then there was your old cook, Angelo… you’ve gotten so used to seeing humans as beneath you that you’ve completely discredited them as threats to you! Your own prejudice has become your worst enemy. You hate humans and your own kind, to the point of using us all to lift yourself to greater power.”

“You depend on _zombies_ ,” Moriarty laughed, “They don’t remember a thing!”

“You oh puppeteer, who makes us dance like marionettes upon a string! Look at your puppet now!” Sherlock spread his arms wide, “A simple pill that I’ve constructed in _your own lab_ will allow us to access all our memories in order to testify against you. That message I just sent was an order for them to take the pill- which I’ve already taken- and hit record. They will spew out your secrets and turn them into the police. Magnusson, of course, had all of his memories in tact.”

“He’s dead.”

“No, I’m afraid not. My dear brother was willing to risk my own life to protect him; his agent put a bullet in me to keep me from killing Magnusson. Likely you thought he wouldn’t go to such extremes, but you underestimated us. Mycroft can be ruthless, even with his own brothers.”

“The agent missed your heart on purpose,” Moriarty pointed out, “Sentiment.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock smiled, “It has served its function as you stopped sending me out after I got shot once. I was too _valuable_. If only you knew how valuable.”

Moriarty was pale, drawn, his face showing his horror, “No. No!”

“I’m afraid so, Professor Brook. You’re about to lose it _all_.”

The helicopters were closer now and John looked up to see them swarming down on them. The wind was tremendous and Moriarty used it to his advantage, twisting out of John’s arms like the cat he was and bolting for the edge of the building. Sherlock shouted something, but it was drowned out in the noise from the helicopters. John stood up to chase after him, as he was clearly intending on jumping off the ledge, but Sherlock pulled him up short. He saw red dots appear over the area and stood stock still while a megaphone ordered everyone to hold their fire. Moriarty was called at to stop, but he ran straight off the ledge without any hesitance at all.

John and Sherlock stared at each other, John in shock and Sherlock with a sad look on his face. The helicopters landed while John and Sherlock hurried to the edge, looking over to see the figure that remained of Moriarty in a pool of spreading blood. His sightless eyes stared up at them as if mocking their efforts.

 

This is nearly the end folks. Brace yourself for my usual epilogue struggle.


	19. Chapter 19

Warning added for non-descriptive (slightly comical) felching.

 

“So ends a great, if evil, man,” Sherlock stated after they had climbed down and stood solemnly over his body.

“You cared for him.”

“I respected him.”

“You loved him,” John corrected. Sherlock was silent, “It’s okay. It’s… I can understand why. I’m not… I’m not angry. It’s not like we had anything official going on.”

“What _is_ the last thing you recall?”

“Packing for Baskerville,” John replied, and then looked up in surprise at Sherlock’s intake of breath, “What?”

“That was months ago. You’ve forgotten… _everything_.”

“I might recollect it again,” John replied, “You mentioned pills up on the rooftop?”

Sherlock shook his head sadly, “I’m afraid you’ve been exposed to far too high of a chemical cocktail. You’re going to need to go through rehab and then avoid any sort of psychotropic drugs in the future, even the relatively safe one I made.”

“Rehab? Fuck,” John grimaced.

“It will be better that way,” Sherlock insisted, “I’ll see if I can get Mycroft to put us both in the same facility. Your withdrawal will be worse than mine, but perhaps my being there will ease your discomfort a bit.”

“Yeah,” John laughed, “I can’t imagine what besides having a snarky cocktease with me will make me feel better while going through withdrawal.”

Sherlock winced.

“What?” John asked.

“I think that’s a conversation better left for when you and I are both fully in control of our faculties.”

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft stated, approaching them with that prestigious attitude he usually wore as well as his fine suits and brolly, “Your doctors await.”

“From one facility to the next,” Sherlock sighed, “I don’t suppose this could be done at home?”

“Can I trust you not to bolt and go find something to take the edge off?” Mycroft asked.

“Mmm, yes?”

“Nice try. Into the helicopter, and no groping each other. I’ve seen enough of your naked bodies writhing for one lifetime.”

“Naked… when has he… Sherlock why is Mycroft… I’ve missed _a lot_ haven’t I?”

“A bit, yes,” Sherlock stated, nudging him into the helicopter.

“Is it odd all I can think about is seeing myself in a mirror?”

“Not really, in fact you’re taking this a good deal better than the last time you woke up surprised to find yourself with fur and a tail.”

“Am I? Oh good. I’d hate to make a fool out of myself.”

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock’s knowing smirk but declined to ask. The helicopter took off and he relaxed into the seat, frowning and shaking his head when Sherlock tried to put an arm over him. Sherlock didn’t look too bothered about it, so he relaxed into the ride. He’d be in a good deal of discomfort soon enough, so he might as well sit back and enjoy the scenery.

XXX

Sherlock and John suffered together, fighting and holding each other in turn as they went through horrific bouts of anger, pain, and sickness. They were given catnip to ease their torment, but it was hardly up for the task. Dr. Louise Mortimer had overseen their treatment, counseling them both while they were on the brink of agony. It was she who had coaxed Sherlock to admit to John that they’d been more than friends with benefits while in the facility. John had been shocked to find out Sherlock not only was his lover, but also no longer had barbs. He’d also been upset that he didn’t recall the first time they’d had full-on sex, but Dr. Mortimer had pointed out that intimacy wasn’t limited to penetrative sex.

“There are many couples, especially amongst same sex couples, who never have penetrative sex. You two were in love long before you took things ‘to the next level’, as it were. Now you can re-experience those things together.”

Finally they returned home; tired, thin, and without a drop of the chemical in their systems. Sherlock was sporting a rather large bag of catnip, but he refused to doll it out until they were both more recovered.

“Pleasure in good time,” Sherlock smiled, settling down in his chair, “First we get back to our routine.”

“Right. So. Cases?”

“Well, yes, that and… home life. Domesticity,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, “You know… stuff.”

“Stuff?” John smirked, “You trying to ask me for a cuddle?”

“Don’t be daft,” Sherlock scoffed anxiously.

“You are. You’re asking for couple stuff,” John grinned.

“I’m too tired for couple stuff,” Sherlock growled.

“How about a pet, then?” John grinned.

Sherlock perked up, then paused, as he reconsidered, “No No I think it’s _you_ who needs a proper pet. No one has ever given _you_ a good petting. Come!”

Sherlock led John to the couch and they both stripped down, John more hesitantly than Sherlock.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed, “We were seeing each other naked long before Baskerville.”

“Yes, but things were… different then. I feel wrong footed not recalling what we’ve done together, no matter what our therapist said. And I look different. My cock’s _inside_ me. Bit off-putting, that.”

Sherlock smiled and drew him in, stroking along his strong jaw with the backs of his fingers.

“We’ll make that right.”

Sherlock stepped forward to press a kiss to John’s lips, letting them glide together. He shivered as their whiskers brushed and the soft fur around their mouths glided together in perfect friction. A soft purr welled up from John’s body, lending a shiver down Sherlock’s frame.

“Oh, that’s… different,” John whispered, “Have I done that before?”

“Purred? Yes.”

“It feels… good,” John breathed, his slotted pupils widening to full round disks as desire brought his scent to a musky head, “Like my whole body approves.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Sherlock replied, leaning down for another kiss.

“Why aren’t you purring?”

“Why aren’t you touching me?”

John smiled a bit and reached up to run his hands down Sherlock’s shoulders and chest, flicking two sets of nipples before going lower to flick another. Sherlock shivered and began to purr as well.

“That’s better,” John smiled, leaning forward to sniff along his neck and then pulling back in embarrassment, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over…”

Sherlock clasped his shoulders and leaned forward, sniffing along John’s neck until he got to his perked ears and nuzzled the base where it met his head.

“Oh, gods,” John groaned, shivering in desire, “They’re _still_ sensitive. Who has an ear as an erogenous zone?”

“It’s a perfectly normal erogenous zone and I _like_ it,” Sherlock replied, giving John’s ear a nip that brought his hips forward with a gasp.

“And where are yours, then, hmm? Where can I bite to make _your_ hips buck?”

“Find out,” Sherlock purred.

“Bedroom,” John growled, pushing him backwards and kissing him hungrily.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Sherlock stalled, “Pet first, fuck later.”

“That’s ridiculous an entirely backwards.”

“Maybe for humans, but we’re felissapiens now,” So saying Sherlock sat himself down on the couch with a grin and patted his lap, “Here kitty, kitty.”

“I’m starting to understand why you lot- I mean why _we-_ tend to up and bite people without notice,” John complained. Sherlock sniggered and John lay himself across his knees as though waiting for a spanking, “This is awkward.”

“Just relax,” Sherlock whispered, and then began to stroke John slowly from the top of his head down to his little pert tail.

“Oh that’s…”

“Shhhh,” Sherlock hushed, “Just enjoy it.”

John began to arch into the touch, his shoulders rotating, spine arching, and hips lifting up to follow the hand. Sherlock scratched behind his ears and his purr became a loud, pleased rumble. John moaned and wriggled against him, then gasped in alarm as his cock began to slide free of its sheath.

“Oh, fuck that feels weird.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock leaned back, frowning a bit.

“It’s ummm, coming out to play.”

Sherlock smirked, “Oh is it now? Well, I’d better go and greet it properly. Don’t want to be rude.”

“What, you? Rude? Nah,” John babbled as Sherlock helped him upright and led him towards the bedroom.

Sherlock’s hips moved with the sultry sway of absolute feline grace while John did his best not to climb him like a tree. He settled for pressing him down into the bed and climbing on top of him, straddling his thighs as he stroked his hands along his chest again. Sherlock arched and groaned, the sound almost a growl in his throat. Then he reached up and tweaked John’s nipples, making him gasp and arch prettily.

“I’m almost sorry I only came out with two nipples,” John panted.

“One for each hand,” Sherlock pointed out, then slid down a bit so he could ease them with lips, tongue and teeth.

John shifted until he was straddling Sherlock’s head and then groaned as the man began to lap at the tip of John’s cock.

“D-does it taste off?”

Sherlock snorted and decided not to answer, lapping at the damp tip until John forgot his anxiety and the shaft slid free. It began to plump immediately until Sherlock had a proper length to bob his head on, teasing the foreskin back with his tongue. John moaned and shivered as pleasure coiled in his belly.

“Sherlock,” John gasped, starting to pull away as his climax raced towards him, “I’m not going to be able t…”

Sherlock let out a growl and jerked John back down by reaching around and grasping the nub of his tail. John howled and was instantly on the cusp of orgasm, “Oh fuck! R-rub my… fuck!”

Sherlock stroked his tail as if it were another cock, purring to throw John over the edge, and he came down his throat with a strangled cry, whimpering as Sherlock slipped out from beneath him while still stroking his tail.

“Interesting,” Sherlock purred, “I wouldn’t like my tail handled in such a way. I wonder if that’s due to construct? It looks more like a rabbit tail, did you notice?”

“Sherlock,” John gasped, his voice cracking, “I’m not even sure how long it’s been since I last came, but I’m guessing near a month.”

“And?”

“You’re making me hard again. Sssstop with the t-t-t-tail!”

“Oh, lucky days!” Sherlock cheered, relentlessly stroking the little tail, “Your refractory period is normally much longer, it must be due to all the excess stimulus combined with lengthy abstinence during our recovery. Shall I have you first to give you a bit more time to recover?”

Sherlock reached his thumb down and tapped John’s entrance with the pad, the man gasped and let out a full body twitch, his pucker clenching and then starting to gape for Sherlock as he leaned down to blow on it gently. John moaned, long and deep, and spread his legs as far as he could before leaning down and pressing his face into the mattress.

“Fuck me. Hard,” John ordered, throwing a wild look over his shoulders.

“All in good time,” Sherlock purred, then fetched the lube from the bedside drawer, “First I’ll see what a bit of prostate stimulation does for your enthusiastic libido.”

“It’ll do fuck all when I pin you down and fuck _you_ instead!”

“Oh, on the contrary. I absolutely _love_ having my prostate stroked. I advise you to do so until I’m barely capable of stringing a sentence together… in fact, I think I’d like to penetrate you until I’m _almost_ there, and then pop off so I can climax while you’re inside of me.”

“You’re a sex god. You’re a genius, beautiful beyond compare, and a sex god. That’s extraordinarily unfair and intimidating for us normal blokes,” John babbled as Sherlock slid a finger into him and began to stroke his inner walls.

“Hmm, if you’re still capable of more than two syllable words I’m clearly not doing this right. Forgive me; we’d only been intimate the once. I obviously need to work on my anal fingering skills.”

“I think I love you. I might even be approaching worship,” John glared over his shoulder accusingly, “But if you tell _anyone_ that I said that I’ll deny it and then chin you.”

“Duly noted,” Sherlock replied, and then smirked when he located John’s prostate and set him to howling.

Finally he was stretched enough and Sherlock lined himself up and slid slowly inside of him, drawing a groan from them both. Sherlock paused before pressing in the rest of the way inside, moaning in bliss at the wet heat. He stroked his hands along John’s hips, holding still despite his growling and swearing beneath him. Despite his own urge to thrust he felt an intense need to savour this moment. John eventually stilled as well, dropping silent when he sensed the change in the atmosphere. Sherlock began to run his hands along his blonde sides, long fingers tracing the brown patterns along his sides and then stroking from the back of his head down to the base of his spine with two fingers from each hand. John whimpered, his hole clenching and sucking at Sherlock. Sherlock continued his intimate petting while John occasionally reached down to keep his cock interested.

“You’re gorgeous,” Sherlock whispered, “Before and now.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “As… stunning… as it is to hear you say kind things for a change… if you don’t move I’m going to roll us over and ride you until you…”

Sherlock slid out and plunged back in with a gasp of pleasure. It was a blur of motion after that, with John thrusting back while Sherlock fucked him fast and hard.

“Fuck. Yes,” John grunted, “Harder! There! Fuck!”

“You have a filthy mouth in bed,” Sherlock growled.

“Better stick your cock in it next time,” John grunted.

“I’m close.”

“Pull out.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock gasped, “Oh gods, John!”

John pulled out of his grasp and tackled him, pinning him to the bed, Sherlock wrapped his hand around his cock and held himself off by breathing deep and slow, eyes clenched shut, while John panted above him and fumbled for the lubricant. When Sherlock nodded that he was ready and spread his legs, John pressed a digit inside of him and stretched him with quick skill.

“Ready?”

“Hurry up already!” Sherlock shouted.

John grinned as he pressed inside, draping himself over Sherlock as he moaned in bliss.

“Oh gods yes!” John gasped, slipping partway out and then pressing inside once more, “Mmm, swallow me up, gorgeous.”

“John!” Sherlock gasped, “I _need_ to come!”

John altered his angle, propping himself up on his arms, and then grinned as Sherlock threw his head back and began to pant. He gave him a few sharp half thrusts that had him crying out and then went back to a slow glide. Sherlock didn’t take long to start clawing at his arse. Literally.

“Fuck, Sherlock! Claws!”

“Fuck, John! _Cock_!” Sherlock replied, his tone argumentative.

John didn’t have the wherewithal to tell him that made no sense, so he focused on buggering some sense back into him, reaching between them to stroke Sherlock’s throbbing cock. Sherlock had a very good reason for wanting to come while bottoming. His surgery to remove the barbs had damaged several hundred nerves around the head of his penis. He could still climax from penile stimulation alone, but the added bliss of his prostate being stroked by John’s thick cock was something surreal. His hand being added in was like electricity connecting the two organs and he was quickly coming with a few sharp shouts of pleasure.

John groaned through Sherlock’s orgasm, letting himself thrust through the clench and pull as the man beneath him shuddered. He watched on a propped arm as strings of come were lost on his white belly. John admired the dampness on his hand before placing it beside Sherlock’s head and leaning on it to give himself more room to thrust. It had been ages since he came twice in quick succession and he was feeling like a soldier again as he teetered on the edge. John angled away from Sherlock’s prostate, but he needn’t have bothered. The cat was boneless beneath him, a happy smile gracing his sleepy features as he blinked up at John and casually turned his head to lap at the fluids on John’s hand.

John swore at the sight, shivering as that rough tongue lapped up his own semen, and then groaned as his orgasm washed over him. John stilled his hips for a moment, just letting himself swim in pleasure, then pumped them a few times to draw it out.

“Yessss,” Sherlock purred, “Fill me up. Claim me.”

“Mmm, mine,” John groaned in agreement, watching Sherlock’s ears twitch forward at the sound of his voice, “Love you, you bastard.”

“Same,” Sherlock smiled, and then closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.

“Twice the bastard,” John chuckled, “You’d better wake up and shower or you’re going to hate yourself.”

Sherlock hissed and then twisted out from under John the second he had pulled out.

“Felissapiens don’t shower daily, nor do we require it.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Water feels like it’s tickling under my skin,” John shuddered, “But you’re about to have my cum leaking out of your arse so…”

Then John’s jaw dropped as Sherlock tossed his leg over his head and leaned forward to lap at his leaking hole. For several minutes he simply stared while Sherlock cleaned himself up, toes pointing at the ceiling, and then yawned and stretched as if there were nothing unusual about having felched himself.

“I’m going to go brush my teeth,” Sherlock stated with a grin.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” John agreed.

“Coming?”

“Probably sooner than is healthy,” John sighed as he followed Sherlock into their bathroom with a limp in his step.

 

One more chapter to go J


	20. Epilogue

Their shoes had been abandoned some time ago. Their clawed and padded feet clicked on the brick and cast iron that made up the rooftops of London. They kept low and moved fast, their bodies like shadows slipping through the night. Over gaps they jumped without fear, their eyes unerringly on the prey fleeing before them. John’s vision had gone tunneled, focused to the point that he was relying on instinct to jump and weave. Around a corner they dodged, then split up to cut off the shorter man who fired a dart at Sherlock who managed to duck out of the way in the nick of time.

_Poison!_

John snarled and tackled the man, taking him down easily once he was no longer running on those shockingly fast little legs. Sherlock clapped the cuffs on him and stood up, panting for a moment before he pursed his lips in satisfaction. John’s ears were all over the place, flicking towards attentive, back towards excited, and then around again to questioning while his tail lashed wildly.

“Now we just have to find the oth- OH!” Sherlock shouted, as an absolute giant grabbed him from behind and lifted him over his head.

John yowled in outrage and tackled that one as well, but taking him down resulted in Sherlock being dropped on his back. For several seconds all three had the wind knocked out of them, then the little guy managed to grab John’s ankle and bite _hard._ John swore and kicked wildly, but it was no use. The big fellow beneath them was starting to shove when Sherlock rolled off of John and tackled the little one, leaving John to wrestle the bear of a man. They rolled all over the rooftop, collecting tar and pebbles all over their bodies and hair, until Sherlock re-joined the fray with a snarl and a handy wooden plank which he snapped over the larger man’s head.

“Thanks,” John panted.

“Welcome,” Sherlock replied, “Call Lestrade.”

“Right,” John grinned, staggering to his feet and brushing himself off before fishing out his phone to call Lestrade, “Hey, Greg? We got them! Yes, both! No, neither of us is dead. Look, just send a wagon, okay? Maybe more than one. You might have to cut the one in half and put him in two different cars.”

Sherlock chuckled as he clapped the irons on the larger one and then cuffed his ankles for good measure.

“How many of those do you have?” John asked in surprise.

“Want a pair?” Sherlock flirted.

“Oh no,” John laughed, “I’m not that stupid. You’d lash me to the bed and do experiments on me.”

“That _is_ the general idea,” Sherlock purred.

“Not the fun kind of experiments,” John laughed.

“Is there such a thing?” Sherlock wondered.

Back at the Yard they sat themselves down to give their statements, Sherlock curling into his chair while John sprawled in his. Lestrade strode in purposefully and passed John a tablet and pen. He began writing while Sherlock gloated about their success. Mycroft took that moment to wander in, brolly in hand, and Sherlock stood up and hissed at him angrily.

“Oh do calm down, little brother,” Mycroft sighed.

“ _Little_!” Sherlock snarled, “Mummy had us five minutes apart! You just like to pretend you’re the smarter one!”

“I _am_ the smarter one,” Mycroft growled.

“Alright now girls, let’s not,” John scolded lightly.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock snapped, “You’re not the human anymore. You can’t order us about.”

“Thanks to me, he can do what he pleases,” Mycroft gloated, referring to the laws he’d gotten through parliament, “All felissapiens can. There’s no longer a need for ‘owners’.”

“We both know I still own him,” John growled, eyes lifting to give the two cats a meaningful glance while he continued to write down their statement. Sherlock spun around, pupils dilated, to stare at John with open lust while Mycroft gave him an offended look. Lestrade sighed and shooed the two younger cats out the door before closing it and the blinds to his office as Mycroft sat down.

“So,” Lestrade started, sliding into his chair, “Are you going to stop by and pick up your things? Or are they all too… _pedestrian_ for you now.”

“Gregory, I realize my absence for the last few weeks has been…”

“Hurtful? Shocking? Heartbreaking? How about causing me to doubt my entire relationship with both you _and_ Molly?”

Mycroft had the presence of mind to look slightly guilty, but it didn’t last long, “I can explain.”

“You’d better have been in fucking _Baskerville_ to make up for just up and leaving us.”

“I had to make sure those I was dealing with were aware that I was my own cat,” Mycroft replied.

“Your own… _you’re wearing clothes!_ I thought you detested clothes! And a three piece suit?! Do I even fucking _know_ you?!”

“You know me better than anyone,” Mycroft replied softly, “Better than Sherlock.”

“Then _why_ , Mycroft? Why? If you’d just told me something… anything… If you’d dropped me a fucking _text_!”

I am… truly sorry,” Mycroft replied softly.

“Yeah, well we’re about two months shy of sorry,” Lestrade replied, his voice choked, “Molly’s on antidepressants because of you! Do you even _like_ us? Because you sure as hell don’t _love_ us.”

Mycroft really _did_ look guilty then, “You both mean… a great deal to me. More than I could ever say.”

“But not more than your mission in the government? Which you didn’t even _tell_ us you _had_ a position in? Our shabby little apartment must have looked so sad to you. Especially compared to that posh house you have on Belgrave Square!”

“Gregory…”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he snarled.

Mycroft closed his eyes a moment.

“This isn’t easy for me,” He sighed.

“Yeah, and it’s a fucking cake walk for me!”

“I love you. I love Molly. I had to step back and live on my own for the first time in my life. I _had_ to. It wasn’t just to prove it to my constituents; I had to prove it to _myself_. I had to be my own cat. I missed you both terribly. I only kept my position in the government from you for your own safety.”

“Bullshit. You kept it from us because you’re _selfish_. You just didn’t want to change things in the bedroom, but it _never_ would have changed the way we were together!”

Mycroft laughed bitterly, “Changed the… I would have _begged_ to change the atmosphere in our bedroom! I was a _throw pillow_ to you. No more a person than Sherlock’s _lovey_. A sex toy to bridge the gap between you and Molly!”

“No. Never.”

“I was! And gods help me I can’t go back to it, but I _want to anyway!”_ Mycroft broke down then, his façade crumbling as tears spilled from his eyes. He leaned forward and pressed his face into his hands, letting his umbrella fall to the floor.

Lestrade rounded the desk, pushed the umbrella out of the way, and knelt at Mycroft’s feet. He reached up to stroke his ears and pulled him gently against him until he was sobbing against his shoulder with his arms wrapped around him tightly.

“Hush, love, hush,” Lestrade whispered softly, “We’ll fix this. We’ll figure it out. You’re not furniture. Furniture can be replaced. _No one_ can replace you. No one. Molly and I love you so much, Mycroft. We just want you back. Things can change, things _will_ change. They’ll get better. We didn’t know. I’m sorry that we didn’t, but I can’t change the past.”

Mycroft slid off the chair and Lestrade leaned back until they were both on the floor with Mycroft straddling his lap, rubbing his head against the side of Lestrade’s face. Lestrade sighed and let a few tears run down his own cheeks as he stroked Mycroft’s back and tail. He’d been being so strong for Molly that he hadn’t let himself mourn in all the time that Mycroft had been gone.

“Myc,” Lestrade whispered softly, “Gods, I love you so much. I was so lost without you. I was so worried. I was sure you were dead. I tried to file a missing persons report and _they told me_ _you weren’t a person_. My own mates in the Yard! They said when cats went missing you reported it to the pound! I had to get volunteers to help me search for you! I only found out you were still alive when the laws went through last week and Gregson contacted me to ask if I still wanted to file a report because suddenly you were a person! I looked at the paperwork and _your name_ was on it as the _person_ who got the movement passed. It must have been such a battle to get them to respect you.”

“It was,” Mycroft replied, a purr swelling up and flowing out of him.

“You’re so brave,” Lestrade growled out, turning his head to nuzzle into Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft whimpered and pressed more firmly against Lestrade as the man’s hands became firmer against his body.

“Gregory… I need…”

“Yes. Fuck yes.”

It was an entirely novel experience to strip clothes off of Mycroft, but he was eager for the task. His soft body was slowly revealed to him until all six nipples and one fat cock were available for his enjoyment. His own shirt was tugged open and his trousers pulled down, but he otherwise remained mostly clothed. He guided Mycroft to stand and then sat him against his desk, leaning down to capture his lips in a gentle kiss.

“My handsome love,” Lestrade whispered, pressing kisses down his jaw and neck, “My precious darling.”

“Do you really love me, Gregory?”

“Yes. Yes, so much.”

Lestrade dropped to his knees to lath each nipple, suckling until Mycroft was panting with want, his hard cock free and leaking copiously. Then he dipped his head down and lapped at his pre-come while gazing up at Mycroft with as much love and devotion showing in his eyes as he could. Mycroft stared down at him in wonder, shivering in longing.

“Gregory, my love,” Mycroft whispered, “Please.”

Lestrade stood, and pressed their cocks together, taking advantage of Mycroft’s naturally slick member as he grasped both their cocks and began to thrust into his hand. Mycroft’s eyes rolled back in his head and he sighed in bliss. For a moment they just panted, overcome by pleasure, and then Mycroft’s hands tangled in Lestrade’s hair and he dragged his mouth against him for a heated kiss.

“I want you inside me,” Mycroft panted.

“Mmm, I want _you_ inside _me,_ ” Lestrade growled.

Mycroft pulled back instantly, his eyes showing his suspicion, “You’ve never wanted that before. Allowed it, yes, but never _wanted_ it. If this is your way of _apologizing_ …”

“What makes you think I’ve never wanted it?” Lestrade scoffed.

“Sherlock isn’t the only one capable of making deductions!” Mycroft hissed.

“Well, you’ve yet to find my prostate,” Lestrade chuckled, soothing his ire with a caress, “And you’re always so prickly that I’ve never had the heart to tell you. Let me guide you?”

Mycroft nodded and Greg dug through a drawer until he found some lotion. He turned his back to Mycroft and bent forward, placing his hand on the wall while he reached back with the other to stretch himself. Mycroft watched him while making soft sounds of enjoyment as Greg pressed first one and then two digits inside himself. He stretched and twisted until he got the third in and then plunged only a few moments before slipping free.

“Give me your hands,” Lestrade purred, and slicked them up before guiding two fingers inside him, “curl your fingers. Just a bit more… There!”

“Oh my,” Mycroft panted as Gregory began to writhe in pleasure, “You… you really _are_ enjoying this.”

“As if you didn’t know what it was like to have your prostate rogered,” Lestrade moaned, seeing sparks behind his eyelids. He’d have to keep it down, but it was going to be hard with Mycroft playing him like a well tuned cello.

“I’ve never seen _yours_ manipulated,” Mycroft pointed out.

“If you want to see me enjoy it longer take your fingers out of my ass so I can sit on your cock,” Lestrade growled.

Mycroft obeyed and Lestrade leaned back, spreading his cheeks while Mycroft held his cock in place, and slid backwards. They moaned together and both paused to catch their breath and adjust, Mycroft’s thighs spread and cushioning Greg’s backside while he half stood between them. Then Greg leaned back, gripping Mycroft’s wrists while the cat gripped the desk, and began to roll his hips. Mycroft gasped and began to counter his movements until Lestrade got enough stamina to lift up a bit. Then they were moving together like the sea, soft sighs of pleasure and smothered moans a perfect cadence to their lovemaking. They whispered each other’s names as they arched and thrust together. When the slow motion became too tense they sped up, Mycroft grabbing Lestrade’s hip and flipping them over. Files scattered on the floor and Lestrade found himself pinned to his desk with a growling felissapien frantically plundering his backside.

“Oh gods! Gregory!” Mycroft gasped out, barely managing to keep his voice a whisper.

“Yes, my love,” Lestrade growled, “Take me. That’s it.”

Lestrade snaked a hand between them and stroked himself fast as he felt Mycroft tense up behind him. The feline came with a moan smothered against Lestrade’s shoulder and Greg followed swiftly after with a soft gasp of pleasure. For several minutes they simply clung to each other. Than Mycroft slid free and Greg grabbed a handful of tissues to blot his arse with, finally folding some and shoving it between his cheeks before pulling his trousers back up.

“We better wait a few hours before we go home to Molly.”

“Why is that?” Mycroft asked.

“Because once she stops crying all over you she’s going to ride you like a horse.”

Mycroft smirked lewdly, “I look forward to it.”

“Yeah well, let’s find a _very_ empty toilet and clean up first.”

Mycroft smiled as Gregory lovingly redressed him and the two headed out together, hand in hand.


	21. Fanart of John as Felissapien

By the lovely Scribblesonapage :)


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